


Nightblooming Flowers

by deadlybride



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Kushiel's Legacy Fusion, Consensual Underage Sex, Indentured Servitude, Multi, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2018-12-23 10:08:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 69,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11987628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: In Terre d'Ange, to be trained as a courtesan in the Court of Nightblooming Flowers is a life to be envied. Jared was born for the life; Jensen was not.





	1. Balm

**Author's Note:**

> The series of books by Jacqueline Carey set in Terre d'Ange depict a fictional world only a step to the left of our own. As will quickly become clear, it's a setting which corresponds to the 1700s, roughly, complete with candlelight and coaches and, unfortunately, indentured servitude. The characters within the universe don't regard indenture as slavery, and so I tagged appropriately, but be aware that there is some talk of buying and selling people's bonds.

It's summer, with sun poured like thick honey over the garden of Balm House. Jared, Thomas, and Sandra are playing hide and seek under the indulgent eye of Marina, one of the younger adepts. Sophia sits at Marina's feet while the adept combs out her long dark hair, and Jared would try to get her to join them but he knows it's no use. The adepts say Sophia, with her poise and dignity apparent even at eight years old, is bound for Dahlia House, and Jared can see why. He thinks no one must have any fun at Dahlia, so Sophia will fit right in.

It's Sandra's turn to count, and Jared has hidden himself behind one of the low stone benches. He doesn't trust Sandra not to peek, though—she's naughty, no matter how prettily she acts with the adepts—and so he's watching from just over the top of the bench when Honore appears in the doorway to the house.

"Come along," she says, in her kindest voice. Jared pops his head up a little further and sees that there's a boy behind her, standing in the shadows of the corridor that leads down into the garden. He's pale-skinned and covered with bruises. Big purple splotches over his eye and cheek and jaw. He's wearing only a too-large shirt that falls down to just above his knees, and there are bruises there, too, and scratches on his shins like Jared gets when he falls down. Sandra has pulled her hands away from her eyes, but Jared doesn't yell for Marina that she's cheating, because he has forgotten the game, too. The boy looks like he's maybe a few years older than Jared—maybe older than Thomas, even—but Honore is touching his shoulder very gently and even so he looks like he's just seconds away from crying.

Jared exchanges a look with Thomas, who has stood up from his hiding spot behind one of the big ferns. Thomas is a little nervous-looking, but that's to be expected. Everyone knows that when he comes of age Thomas will stay in Balm House, with his calm and gentle nature, but he's so sympathetic that he can't stand to see anyone crying. Marina is still sitting on the edge of the fountain, her hands quiet on Sophia's shoulders, and Honore is just waiting for the boy to come down into the garden. Jared bites his lip, then sucks in a deep breath and stands, walks right over to Honore's side.

"Hello," he says. "Do you want to come out and play with us?"

This close, he can see that the boy has very pretty eyes—green, with flecks of gold, and the places on his skin that aren't bruised or scratched are dusted with fine, cinnamon-colored freckles. Jared thinks he might be prettier even than Sophia, and hopes she won't be jealous. 

The boy doesn't say anything, though he looks a little less like he's going to cry. Thank goodness. Jared can handle Sandra's weeping fits, but she's easily distracted with a joke or a game and Jared's good at those. This boy looks like he has more reason for crying and Jared doesn't know how to comfort him yet.

"Maybe Jensen can just watch for now," Honore suggests, in her gentle way, and Jared nods.

"You can help make sure Sandra doesn't cheat," he says.

"I don't cheat!" comes a little, indignant shriek from behind Jared, and he grins. It startles a small smile out of the boy ( _Jensen_ , Jared thinks), too, and that only makes Jared smile wider.

"Come," he says, holding out his hand, and after a second Jensen takes it. Honore gives Jared a smile and ruffles his hair before he tugs at Jensen's hand, leading down the steps to the fountain where Marina and Sophia are seated.

"This is my new friend, Jensen," he announces.

Marina smiles. She's eighteen, having been dedicated to Naamah's service for two years, and may be even kinder than Honore. "I'm very pleased to meet you, Jensen," she says. Jared can see the way her eyes flick over Jensen, taking in his battered appearance, but there's no change to her mild expression. He squeezes Jensen's hand and looks up at him, trying to see if he noticed, but it doesn't look like he's any more upset. Just a little lost.

"This is Marina," Jared says, nodding at her. "She's nice. And this is Sophia, and that's Sandra, and there's Thomas," he continues, pointing at each. "We all live here."

Honore beckons to the other children, and they come closer, gathering around Marina in a curious cluster. "Jensen will be living with us here at Balm House," she says, her fingertips settling gently on his shoulder. "The Dowayne owns his marque now, just like she owns all of yours."

Jensen's hand spasms in Jared's grip, fingers squeezing so tightly that it hurts. Jared bites his tongue rather than make a sound and, luckily, the grip relaxes after a few seconds.

Marina exchanges a look with Honore, then gives Jensen another smile as she stands. "Come and sit by the fountain," she says, gesturing with a graceful hand. "It's about time for luncheon. Shall we have it outside today?"

There's a chorus of assent from the children and Marina nods, then kisses Jared's cheek. She takes Honore's arm and they head back into the house, heads together as they whisper about something. Jared assumes they're going to summon one of the servants.

Once the adepts are gone, there's a minute of silence while the other children examine Jensen. He keeps his eyes on the ground and doesn't let go of Jared's hand. "How old are you?" Sandra says, at last, bold as she always is.

Jensen startles. "I'm eleven," he says, finally, in a scratchy voice.

"I'm seven," Sandra announces. The rest of them echo her—Jared's also seven, Sophia eight, and Thomas nine. 

"Which house did you live in before you came to Balm?" Thomas says. 

Jensen's hand clenches around Jared's fingers again, and this time Jared squeezes back. Jensen doesn't look up. "I don't—I didn't live in the Night Court."

Jared blinks, confused. Thomas frowns, delicately, then his expression clears up. "So this is your first time here?" he says. Jensen nods, and Sandra looks like she's going to ask another question, but Thomas speaks again first. "Do you know which house you'll end up in?"

Jensen shakes his head. His eyes are shiny, like he wants to cry but isn't letting himself.

"I don't know anything about the Court," he says, and his voice is even scratchier. "I grew up outside the City of Elua, we didn't really..." He shakes his head again and doesn't finish, but a few tears roll down his cheeks anyway.

Sandra and Thomas look like they're going to cry, too, and Jared's stomach hurts. Sophia looks up at Jensen from her perch on the edge of the fountain and says, calmly, "You have a lot to learn before you can be dedicated into Naamah's service."

Jensen nods, but he looks miserable. Jared doesn't know what to say, but he does know what he's good at. He tugs a little at Jensen's hand, enough to make Jensen look down at him, and then stands on his tiptoes to wrap his arms around Jensen's neck in a hug. There are bruises here, too, on his neck and on his shoulder where his too-big shirt has gaped open. It's only a second before Jensen's squeezing back, hard, even though it must hurt.

There's a delicate sound of a throat being cleared, and Jared opens his eyes to find Marina returned, accompanied by two servants laden with baskets and a steaming tureen—the good fish stew Cook makes, by the smell. Jared lets go of Jensen, a little reluctantly, and then there's a flurry of activity: the maid lays down a blanket, and the children all accept a bowl and a hunk of fresh, crusty bread, then settle themselves in a haphazard circle in the sunshine. The flagstone under them is warm enough to send heat up through the blanket and a breeze picks up, surrounding them with the scent of honeysuckle and lavender that's planted in the garden. Jared shuffles over a little, making a space, and Jensen carefully sinks to his backside, flinching a little before he's settled. 

Sandra begins to whine artfully to Marina that she would like her hair combed, too, and how she doesn't think it's fair that Sophia always gets special treatment. Sophia tosses her head and says something about Sandra being too ill-behaved to merit such things, and under the ensuing argument Jensen leans in close to Jared.

"What's your name?" he whispers, so quietly Jared can hardly hear it.

"Oh!" he says, but lowers his voice to a whisper, too. "I'm Jared."

Jensen gives him a smile—tiny, but there. He looks over to where Sandra is pouting and Sophia is pretending not to, and whispers, "Are they always like that?"

"Usually," Jared says. "We all grew up here, but probably only Thomas is going to stay in Balm. The adepts say he'll be just right in the bedchamber, once he can take patrons. See how nice he is?" He nods to where Thomas is listening politely to whatever Marina is saying, genteelly ignoring the two girls and eating his lunch with grace.

Jensen bites his lip. His mouth is full, a pale pink, and Jared wonders if maybe he'll end up in Cereus for how delicate he seems. "You're nice, too," he says, after a second, and Jared feels himself flush all over with pleasure at the compliment. Jensen blushes, too, over the top of his bruises, and he's such a mess of colors that Jared almost laughs. When Jensen shifts, though, to pick up his bowl, and flinches with his whole body, Jared remembers himself. He wants to ask so many questions. But Jensen is looking sad again, carefully rubbing at his arm under his shirt, and so Jared just settles down to his own stew and lets Jensen lean on him a little, even if Jared is smaller, and tries to tell Jensen everything there is to know about Balm House. It's the most soothing of the Court of Nightblooming Flowers, where patrons come to the adepts for healing as much as they come for the pleasures of the bedchamber. The Dowayne is kind, Jared tells Jensen, and has a habit of taking in unwanted children from the other houses when the adepts are made pregnant by their patrons and the child doesn't throw true to the house's canon.

"Is that where you came from?" Jensen asks. He's blushing again, for some reason.

"My mother was in Camellia," he says, nodding. "Their canon is perfection," he explains, when Jensen looks confused. "The patron who got me on her wasn't a good match and their Dowayne didn't want to keep me, so they sold me to Balm."

Jensen takes a bite of stew and chews it slowly. "Do you miss her?" he says, very quietly. "Your mother, I mean."

Jared puts his empty bowl down and hugs his knees against his chest, watching a hummingbird flirt with a spray of honeysuckle above their heads. "I don't remember her. I came to Balm when I was two and the adepts here take care of us. I don't know who she is, just what the adepts told me."

It's a fact of his life and he isn't sad about it. The nature of their service to Naamah makes unwanted children an inevitability, but the Court always finds a place for them, one way or another. Jensen, though, looks sad enough for both of them. He's quiet for the rest of the meal, and when Marina leads them in a cheerful rhyming song after, he only watches.

That night while the children bathe Jensen gets special help from Honore. Thomas is turned away, thoughtful as ever, but Jared can't help but watch while she pulls the shirt carefully over Jensen's head, revealing a pale, slender body, which would be pretty if it weren't for the bruising. More of that awful dark purple mars his hip and side, spreading up to hide under the big white bandage wrapped around his middle. When Honore starts to dab a fragrant ointment onto Jensen's face he flinches, hard, and Jared wants to leap up from his own bath and hold his hand again. Honore catches his eye, though, and gives him a look full of enough chiding that his face heats and he turns away, splashing through his bathing as fast as he can. The girls are already done, toweling off while Sandra chatters away to Sophia, and Thomas and Jared soon join them in changing into their sleep clothes.

"Wait," he hears, and turns to see Jensen flushed, skin damp and shining. He gestures at the bundle of cloth Honore is holding, red-faced and seemingly embarrassed, one hand hovering over his groin. "Can I—please, may I—"

"We'll give you new clothes, Jensen," Honore says, and Jared can tell she's confused.

Jensen hesitates, but it's clear what he wants, and Honore pauses only for a second before she shakes the shirt out again. "It's fine," she says, soothing, and helps him to lift it over his head, settling the old linen down over his hips again. She touches his jaw, gently. "I'm sure my brother will be pleased enough to let you keep it."

Jared frowns, not understanding, but then Honore turns and catches him watching. Jensen follows her gaze and startles at seeing Jared still there in the doorway to the sleeping chambers. "Jared," Honore says, and it's as close as she ever gets to scolding.

"I'm sorry," he says, stomach twisting, and he really means it.

Honore sighs, but shakes her head and reaches down for Jensen's hand. "You'll be sharing with Jared, for tonight at least, so perhaps it's just as well."

Jared bites down on a smile, upset forgotten, and Jensen smiles back—if a little more cautiously. Honore leads the way down the short corridor to the room all the children share. Sophia and Sandra are already under the covers, Sandra looking seconds away from sleep, and Thomas stands next to the bed he and Jared usually share. "I wasn't sure," he says, glancing at Jensen, and Honore cups her hand around his black curls, presses a kiss to his forehead.

While Honore lets Sandra and Jared argue about which bedtime story they would like, a manservant appears with a low cot, which he spreads with blankets and cushions before departing with a short bow. Thomas takes the cot without being asked, and Jared helps steady Jensen as he sinks to their bed's mattress, body stiff with pain. With Jared distracted, Sandra successfully sues for the story of Blessed Elua's birth. Honore blows out all the candles but the taper next to her chair and Jared whispers, "It's okay if you fall asleep, don't worry," in Jensen's ear, earning him another startled look but also another little smile.

Honore has a sweet voice. She isn't as good of a storyteller as Brother Olivier who came to instruct them in the history of Elua and his angels, but she's good enough, and Jared settles carefully into Jensen's side as she begins. She speaks simply of the death of the One God's son by the soldiers of Tiberium, frightened and made cruel by it. Then, how the Magdalene wept over the body of Yeshua, and how her tears melded with his blood upon the earth and up sprang a new life, that of Blessed Elua, best and brightest of angels. Jared's favorite part is how the Followers of Elua rebelled against Heaven for love of him, and when Honore speaks of Naamah he can't help looking to Jensen to see if he's smiling, too—but he isn't, for he's asleep. His features are softened even further in rest, lashes dark on his cheeks, and he has turned away from the candlelight, his face tilted toward Jared's on the pillow. Jared settles down, too, and closes his eyes while Honore speaks more quietly of Elua coming to Terre d'Ange, of he and the angels making the land beautiful and threading the mortals with their heavenly blood. It isn't long before Honore stops telling the story. The soft breath of the other children fills the nursery. She comes over to their bed and presses a kiss to Jared's tousled hair, and he smiles at her, slipping inevitably down towards sleep. She drops a kiss onto Jensen's head, too, and it's to her murmur of, "Sleep well, darling," that Jared finally closes his eyes, and is gone.

*

Over the time the follows, life slips into routine once again. Jensen sleeps a little more than the rest of the children, but Marina explains quietly to Jared that it's because he's trying to heal and that they should let him rest. He does join them in their lessons, but he's missed so much that Jared and the others end up helping to teach him in their free time, while they're at play or during meals. Jensen already knows how to read and write, and quite well if the adepts' surprise is anything to go by, and so while Jared and the rest are studying at poetry or their letters, he's free to attend the adepts in their rooms, to see how a bedchamber ought to be prepared for a patron, or how to serve prettily at table. He's quiet, even quieter than Thomas, but Jared can tell he's clever for how quickly he understands everything that the adepts can show him. He even practices kneeling  _abeyante_ with Jared, though it pulls at his bruises and Jared can tell it hurts. "I have to learn," is all he says, in his low murmur, and Jared can't disagree.

His eyes are still shadowed, though, and even as his bruises slowly fade and Honore finally removes the bandages from his ribs—broken, Jared learned, and why Jensen rarely plays with them—he stays quiet, sleeps hard but troubled. Gradually, Jared and the others gather the gossip from the adepts. How it was Honore's brother, the soldier, who'd brought Jensen to Balm House, battered and ill-used as he was. How his parents were dead, and the soldier had seen how beautiful the boy was, and how in need of healing, and how he and his sister had pleaded his case to the Dowayne, to take in a too-old fosterling and let him recover in this most gentle of houses.

"Why not give him to the Sanctuary of Elua?" one of the girls says, leading the children in the practice of arranging flowers. She says it quietly enough that Jensen can't hear, on the other side of the chamber, but Jared can.

The male adept with them shushes her, but glances Jensen's way nevertheless. "Look at him," he says, voice low but fervent. "That shouldn't be wasted on the priesthood."

Jared flushes a little, to hear them talk of Jensen that way, but he can't help but look, too. With his skin unmarred and back to the smooth pale gold of health, Jensen is beautiful. His lack of training almost makes him more appealing, for his embarrassment at mistakes is sweet. The adepts are kinder about his mistakes than they are with Jared's, that's certain.

When Jensen has been with them for a few months and summer has slipped away into autumn, a visitor comes to the house. In the nursery, Sophia and Thomas are practicing their singing, and Sandra and Jared are helping Jensen to memorize the royal family tree, when Honore comes into the room, trailed by a strange man. Jared has enough time to see that the man shares Honore's honey-colored hair and her fair skin before Jensen scrambles up to his feet, with no poise at all.

"Hello, Jensen," the man says, and his voice is gentle, his face pleased.

Jensen looks back and forth between the man and Honore, and she smiles at him. "Luc wanted to see you, to see how well you're doing," she says, and beckons for Jensen to come closer. He does, after a brief pause, and Luc smiles broadly, no artifice in it. Now that Jared is looking more closely, he can recognize the doublet the man is wearing, embroidered with a silver swan. A soldier, Jared thinks, and then realizes that this is Honore's brother, the man who brought Jensen to Balm.

"I'm glad to see you," Luc says, easing down onto one knee. It puts him a little below Jensen's height, but he's still taller than Jared. His features aren't as fine as Honore's, but there's a certain charm to him. "I was worried about you, but Honore says that you're doing well here."

The other children have pulled a little away, urged by Thomas, but Jared makes no attempt to hide his interest. Jensen's hands are clutched together behind his back, but he doesn't look scared exactly.

"She is very kind," Jensen says, after a moment, and it's at least relatively smooth. "Everyone has been very generous with me."

"Jensen is a very good student," Honore puts in. "He will be a credit to the house."

"I'm sure he will," Luc says, eyes tracking over Jensen's face. He seems content to look for a moment, but then says, "Are you happy?"

Jared bites his tongue and can see Honore's expression flicker. Anyone who's been with Jensen for more than a few hours knows that, no, he isn't happy, but there's no way for Luc to know that. To draw attention to such things goes directly against the credo of Balm House and so Jared has been doing his best not to, wishing to avoid upsetting Jensen any further.

He's surprised when, after another little pause, Jensen smiles at Luc and his hands relax behind his back. "Of course," he says. "And it's all thanks to you." Luc blinks, but his smile goes shy and pleased, and Jensen steps forward, presses a lingering kiss to either of Luc's cheeks. When he pulls back Jared can see that Luc is enchanted. Jared would be, too, if he didn't think Jensen was fooling.

"I still have your shirt," Jensen says, quietly, ducking his head.

Luc stares for a second. He's a few years older than Honore, perhaps twenty-five, but at that moment he seems barely older than Jensen himself, surprised and pink-cheeked. He clears his throat. "Keep it," he says, and his voice is a little rough.

While Jared's still frowning, Honore puts a hand to Luc's shoulder. "Come," she says, firmer than usual. "Perhaps we can see the Dowayne before you go. I'm sure she'd like to speak with you."

He nods, abstracted, but stands at her urging. At his full height, Jensen comes only to mid-chest on him. Luc reaches out a hand and cups Jensen's smooth cheek in one palm. "I'll see you again," he says, a queer note in his voice, and then Honore tugs on his arm and they're leaving, Luc glancing over his shoulder for one last look.

The meeting unsettles them for the rest of the day. They return only with difficulty to their studies, and Jared tries to catch Jensen's eye but he's focused on the memorization of noble houses he and Sandra had been working on and it's no use. It's only later, when they've eaten and bathed and been tucked into bed, that the strange attitude Jensen has been carrying fades. He turns into Jared's side in the dark, breath coming strange and heavy, and Jared realizes only after he's already embraced Jensen's shoulders that he's crying, quietly but hard. The others are sleeping, and Jared can't see a thing, but he holds Jensen close anyway, mumbles soothing noises into the soft waves of his hair.

It takes a few minutes for it to subside. When the shudders stop, Jensen takes in a deep, cleansing breath, then lets it out on a humorless little laugh. "I'm sorry," he says, in the humid warmth between their bodies.

"It's alright," Jared says. He can feel Jensen's breath coming thickly against his forehead, and snuggles down so that his head rests on Jensen's chest, over his heart. "I don't mind."

Another minute passes, quiet enough that Jared can hear the thud of the heartbeat under his ear, getting gradually slower. The room's chilly, as the servants haven't yet started lighting the braziers at night. Jensen's warm, though, and Jared pulls the blanket up around his shoulders, creating a little cocoon for them both. 

"When the soldiers came," Jensen starts, his voice caught around a whisper, "Luc was the one who pulled me out, looked after me while we rode into the City."

Jared stays quiet. Haltingly, Jensen tells a story, but it's a true one, truer than the stories about Blessed Elua or Naamah or any of the other angels, because it happened to someone Jared knows, to his friend. Once, there was a man born in Camlach, in the cold mountains, to a d'Angeline woman who'd fallen in love with one of the Skaldi. He was a soldier, for a while, but had a distaste for violence, and didn't fit with the Camaelines because he didn't want to fight and because they distrusted his Skaldi blood. He left the mountains and came down to Azzalle, by the sea, to learn a different trade. He worked on ships, and in the fields, and one day when he came to the market he met a beautiful Azzallese woman. She was alone, too, but proud, and she admired how he didn't hide his Skaldi heritage, liked his rougher features and gentle ways. They soon married, and had a son.

The man bought a wagon with his hard-earned wages, and with his wife and baby began a traveler's life, selling small goods and repair work to people along the roads and making a decent living. The wife sang, and could recite poetry like a Mendicant, and she'd grown up in a Sanctuary and so could read and write. She taught her skills to her little boy, and the man taught him to ride and help with the horses, and for years they lived just like that, skipping from town to town. They weren't rich, but they were independent, and very happy.

One day, in the middle of spring, a group of bandits and mercenaries rode upon the little family's encampment. They tried to buy the woman and the little boy from the man, but he refused, because he loved them. The bandit leader saw how beautiful the woman was, and offered to fight the man for them, but again the man refused because he had sworn off fighting. The bandit then said that he would simply take what he wanted, and when the man protested a third time, the bandit had his men hold him down and ran him through, leaving him to bleed to death on the dusty road.

The chest under Jared's cheek shudders when Jensen takes in a long breath. Jared has started to cry, but he tries to stay quiet while Jensen continues the story. The bandits waited for the man to die and took the woman into the wagon where the family had lived, taking it in turns to lie with her. The boy they chained up to the wheel so he couldn't run away. After a few hours, they pulled the woman out of the wagon and with it all the valuable things the family had owned, and their horses, and then burned the wagon with the man's body inside and rode off, into the night.

The bandits roved even further than the family had. To Skaldia over the Camaeline mountains in the summer, and down to Caerdicca Unitas in the winter. The woman wanted to run, and so did the boy, but the bandits never let them be alone together and neither would leave without the other. The woman they used as a cook and as a bedwarmer, and the boy they made look after the horses and do the chores around the camp. Sometimes, the woman's pride would rear up its head, and she would protest being made to go to bed with one of the men, and when that happened they would beat the boy to force her compliance. Sometimes they would hurt the boy just because, and then she would plead for them to stop and offer herself up willingly, and the bandits liked that best of all.

On their way back from Aragonia, coming back to Terre d'Ange along roads that they made dangerous with their presence, the bandits spent one evening taunting and then beating the boy and then, when the woman made an offering of herself to distract them, took her there on the side of the road, in the dusty heather. They whooped and laughed, drunk with the success of sacking a merchant's caravan, and left themselves unaware enough that when a column of d'Angeline soldiers came upon them they were unprepared for the fight. They were mercenaries, though, not unused to battle, and killed the woman and two men before they were overcome. It was Luc, one of the younger soldiers, who noticed the battered boy, covered in blood and lashed to the saddle of one of the horses, and he pulled the boy into his chest so he wouldn't have to look at the bodies anymore, and promised to get him home. He didn't know that the boy didn't have one.

"He gave me his shirt so I wouldn't have to wear the bloody clothes," Jensen mumbles. Jared's nearly dizzy with crying, the shirt in question sopping wet and salty under his cheek. "When the soldiers came back to the City, the lieutenant wanted to send me to a Sanctuary or to foster with the army, but Luc convinced him to let him try to give me to the Night Court. The Dowayne almost wouldn't take me because I'm too old, but Luc and Honore persuaded her." He sniffs, wetly. "I didn't expect to see him again."

Jared feels wrung out, like an old cloth. He hurts from listening. How much more Jensen must hurt from the telling, he thinks, and years of watching the Balm House adepts gentle their patrons helps him. He doesn't wrap Jensen up in another hug, doesn't ask him to talk more. Instead, he finds Jensen's hand, in the dark, laces their fingers together. "You'll be all right," Jared whispers. It makes Jensen hitch in a breath and he buries his face in Jared's hair, hauls him in a little closer. He falls asleep after only a few minutes. Jared keeps his eyes closed against the dark, listening to the slow thud of Jensen's heart. He stays awake for a long time.

*

A sleety rain is falling the day Thomas turns ten. Winter has settled gently onto the City of Elua, this year, and inside Balm House the warm air smells of cinnamon, of roasting nuts. Thomas's birthday falls only two weeks before the Longest Night, but even so the House pauses its urgent preparations. In the nursery, Marina and Florent, one of the male adepts, help all of the children get ready with a solemn air. Even Sandra behaves while they're dressed in simple white tunics, while Marina weaves cerise-colored ribbons through their hair. Florent draws Thomas to stand between his spread knees, a delicate moue of concentration on his handsome face while he dabs oil fragrant with bergamot behind Thomas's ears, at the hollow of his throat and his wrists. "Ready, darling?" he says, and Thomas nods, serious but calm.

In the Dowayne's hall, they find a feast laid, all of the adepts waiting for them. Jared hears Jensen gasp, behind him. The adepts are dressed simply, but they have adorned themselves with flowers and they all smile radiantly upon seeing Thomas with his hand in Florent's, and it's so much beauty at once that Jared's eyes tear up. The younger children and Jensen wait quietly by the door while Florent leads Thomas over to the Dowayne's chair. She is dressed more grandly, in a dark violet robe with the chain of her office gleaming gold on her bosom, her silver-shot sable hair caught in a caul studded with tiny golden leaves and flowers. Her Second, Maxime, stands just beside her, and he looks solemn as Thomas sinks  _abeyante_ to the cushion before the Dowayne.

"When Blessed Elua came to Persis, he was captured by the King and chained in a cell," Maxime begins. His voice is deep and pleasant, his hands clasped quietly before him. "There were angels who heard of this and descended from the One God's heaven to the earth to save him and to walk with him in his wandering. It was Naamah, eldest sister, who came to the King and offered her body in exchange for Elua's freedom."

Beside Jared, Jensen takes in a deep breath, but when Jared glances at him his expression is still. The other adepts are listening intently, eyes on Maxime and on Thomas before him, though of course they have all heard it before.

"The King was cruel, but he accepted Naamah's offer and took her to his bedchamber." Maxime bends and touches Thomas's chin with a gentle hand, drawing his head up to meet his gaze. "Naamah looked into the King's heart and saw something there to be pitied, and so it was with compassion that she lay down with him, and with her touch tried to ease his pain. In this house we strive to do the same in our service to Naamah, to find what ails our patrons and soothe them, to be a balm to their hearts. Do you understand?"

Thomas nods, and Maxime smiles down at him before he steps back and gestures to a servant.

"Stand, child," the Dowayne says. Thomas rises in a smooth movement, while the servant draws close and proffers a silver tray. From this, the Dowayne takes a delicate wreath of twined pink and violet flowers and, when Maxime leads Thomas closer, she places it on his dark hair and presses a simple kiss to his forehead and then to both cheeks. "Be welcome to Balm House," she says, formally, and then smiles at him, her face kind. "You will be a credit to Naamah's service, my dear."

The solemnity eases, then, and Thomas is drawn into the crowd of adepts, embraced and kissed until he's flushed pink with pleasure. During the feast, he sits at the long table with the adepts, and he's still mild, sweet Thomas but also radiates happiness. Jared can't stop grinning, even though he and Jensen and the girls are relegated to the small children's table, dining on simpler food with well-watered wine. The conversation at the adepts' table isn't precisely lively, because this is still Balm House and those who serve Naamah here are predisposed to calm, but this is an occasion for joy. It's not long before one of the as yet undedicated apprentices moves to the harp in the corner, and a trio of pretty female adepts rise to sing, drawing Thomas with them. His lips are darkened with wine and he's flushed, gone the same color as the crown of pink flowers in his hair, but his sweet boy-soprano rises clearly above the women's voices and Jared feels like he could just expire with the sheer happiness filling the hall, tangible as the bergamot-scented smoke hanging in the air.

That night they return to the nursery late, accompanied by a yawning servant who lights the brazier in the corner and turns down the covers hastily before disappearing off to his own bed. Sophia and Sandra tumble into their cot with ribbons still tangled in their hair. Jensen helps Jared with his plait, then turns around so he can have his own hair unbound. Jared keeps having to suppress his giggles and his skin feels warm, but he's careful as he pulls the ribbon from Jensen's hair, only just long enough now to be restrained. When he's finished he collapses down to the bed on his back and watches lazily while Jensen changes from the soft tunic and breeches into Luc's baggy shirt. Jensen's skin is very white now, Jared thinks muzzily.

Jensen blows out the candle the servant left and finds his way to the bed in the dark, and Jared winds himself around the heat of him as soon as he lays down. Jensen huffs when Jared's curls end up in his nose, but holds him close anyway. The nursery is far enough away from the public areas of the house that they can't hear the festivities anymore, but Jared still carries his last glimpse of Thomas behind his eyes, and he buries a smile in Jensen's shoulder.

"I wish I could turn ten," he says, after a minute. Jensen makes a questioning hum against his hair, and Jared snuggles down a little more. "You know. Move into the grown-up quarters, and start to learn about how to serve Naamah, and all that."

Jensen's quiet. Jared listens to the steady in-and-out of his breath, the same sound that's been lulling him to his rest for months now. He's halfway to sleep when Jensen says, quietly, "I ought to be doing that, now."

Jared blinks his eyes open. He can't see anything, but he drums his fingers on Jensen's breast anyway in a slow easy rhythm. Jensen's not wrong. By rights and tradition of the Court, he should be with the adepts now just as Thomas is, working his way toward his dedication into Naamah's service rather than staying behind in the nursery. "It's not your fault that you started late," Jared tries. "Your turn will come."

Jensen shifts, against him, and a long sigh puffs against Jared's ear. He thinks for a second that Jensen's going to say something else. But no—there's only another shift as the blankets get pulled up to Jared's shoulders, and under his fingertips Jensen's chest rises in a long, slow breath. "We should sleep," he murmurs, at last, and Jared obediently closes his eyes, the dark all around him warm and comfortable. He hopes it's that way for Jensen, too.

*

Thomas isn't lost to them, of course. He no longer stays in the nursery, but there are still many arts of the salon that must be learned, and he's weak in his letters and so attends lessons with them. And, too, he's the youngest of the apprentices in Balm House—the next in age is a girl of fourteen, Elodie, who has already been dedicated to Naamah—and so he's still their playmate, and is with them in the early evening of the Longest Night, when the rest of the house is preparing for the journey to Cereus, the first and oldest House, for the Midwinter Masque.

Jared loves the Longest Night. Most of the servants leave the house, and so while the adepts attend the Masque at Cereus as tradition demands, the children are left with just a few chaperones, the servants with no families to go to and the apprentices who haven't yet reached sixteen and who may not yet appear in public as adepts of Balm House. Last year, he and Sandra coaxed Sophia and Thomas into playing a game of hide and go seek and he managed to stay hidden the longest. He wants to see if he can convince Jensen to join them, this year.

For now, though, they have to stay out of the way. The sun has just set and the Dowayne and Maxime are supervising the costuming of the adepts in the Dowayne's hall, the largest open space they have. The children, Thomas included, have gathered on a large couch in one of the salons just off the entrance, and the adepts bustle back and forth, most of them half-clad and half-painted, urgent calls for more pins and ribbons sounding through the open doors of the hall. The houses of the Night Court contract no patrons on the Longest Night except in very special circumstances, and Thomas whispered to Jared earlier that some of the adepts refused contracts even the night before, wanting longer to prepare for the Masque. This year, the Dowayne selected the theme of a flower garden, showing off the simple wealth of Balm to be found in her large greenhouse: every kind of bloom Jared has ever heard of, kept carefully cultivated by the adepts to put patrons at ease in nature's bounty even in the depths of winter. Sophia thinks it will be a coup to have live flowers for the costumes.

Sandra scoffs, clever fingers constantly braiding and untangling a sheaf of ribbon one of the adepts has tossed aside. "Flowers are dull," she says. "Even in the middle of winter. I'd bet Eglantine has the best costumes again, just you wait."

Sophia's ready to retort when a cleared throat interrupts, and Jared twists around on the couch to find Florent standing just behind them, a chiding expression aimed at Sandra. "Eglantine is the cleverest and most inventive, and I am sure they will be a delight to all who attend the Masque," he says, as Sandra flushes. "But don't forget, there is beauty to be found in simple things."

Sandra nods, her face deeply pink. Thomas pulls her into his side for a hug, and Florent's expression goes a little softer. He is fully costumed: face and bare torso painted with delicate notes of white and deep purple, sheer green silk wound around his wrists and arms, modesty only just covered by low-slung dark velvet breeches. His amber hair has been left unbound, tumbling over his pale shoulders, and he wears a crown of moonflower vine, the white blossoms pinned with seeming randomness through the glossy waves of his hair. It is a simple costume—hardly a costume at all, Jared thinks—but it brings out Florent's beauty and his softness, both.

"Each house has its place in the Court," Thomas says, but it's with a questioning lilt.

Florent nods. "Just so," he says, and drops a kiss on his head. There's a sparkle to his eye, though, when he says, "And I'd wager even you, little Sandra, would be intrigued by some of our night-blooming flowers."

He nods at the open doorway and Jared looks over in time to see Maxime step through, barefooted and only barely clad in artfully arranged strips of white silk, golden hair bound and studded with narcissus. Jared can't stop himself from laughing, because he knows Sandra thinks Maxime is the most beautiful adept in the house, and he laughs harder when he sees that Jensen is blushing just as deeply as Sandra is. Maxime gives Florent a puzzled look, and Florent shrugs, and when Jared just keeps laughing Sandra hits him.

It's not long before the adepts are ready, and though they've now been scolded the children are all allowed to see them off to the carriages. Seeing them all together, receiving last-second touch-ups from Maxime and the Dowayne, Jared knows that Florent was right. The costumes aren't complex, but they are beautiful, selected with obvious care to bring out the coloring and traits of each adept. Jared catches Honore's eye just before she dons her domino (purple silk, to match the lilac trailing from her wrists and twined in her honey-colored hair) and, though the smile she gives him is gentle as ever, he catches his breath. They will hold their own, he thinks proudly, even if Bryony attends wearing actual gold or if Jasmine comes adorned with all the treasures of Persis.

That night the children and the apprentices and the servants all dine together, on simple stew and bread and sharp cheese, spiced cider warming their bellies. Jensen and Jared sit by one of the footmen and a maid, and the footman tells a bawdy story about a nobleman who lost a wager to Bryony's Dowayne, and instead of two Bryony adepts got two Mandrake adepts instead. Jared doesn't really understand the story, but the maid's laughter is infectious and he finds himself giggling along, too. Jensen only blushes, of course.

With his limited experience, Jared doesn't realize that the footman and the maid are courting until they rise together and the footman winks at Jared, hand low on the maid's back as he says, "Ask Blessed Elua for an extra-long night for me, sweet thing." The rest of the servants laugh and cat-call, and the apprentices smile and blow kisses, and Jared remembers all over again just how much he loves the Longest Night. Brother Olivier told them that, long ago, the people who had lived here before Elua and the angels came held the tradition on their own, to make merry and celebrate life on the darkest, coldest night of the year, and Elua loved it so much that he embraced it himself.

"Do you think Blessed Elua ever played hide and go seek?" he says later, when they've gathered again in the nursery. It's almost midnight, but he's not tired.

Sophia gives him a haughty look. "Of course not," she says, braiding her hair into a neat plait.

Sandra, for once, agrees. "The angels would all have been able to find him, anyway," she says, reasonably. "Can you imagine anyone being able to hide from Cassiel or Camael?"

Thomas blinks tiredly from his spot on the rug, where he's splayed in front of the fireplace like a sweet, sleepy cat. "Cassiel wouldn't let Blessed Elua go alone, in the first place."

The conversation turns, then, to a discussion about which of the angels was most devoted to Elua (Sandra says that of course it was Naamah, and Sophia says that, no, it must have been Cassiel, to give up the One God's love but to partake of none of Earth's delights). Jared isn't sure, himself, and turns to ask Jensen's opinion before he notices that Jensen isn't with them at all. He's over at the table where they practice their letters on the far side of the room, all alone, and Jared pops up from the circle they've made around the fire and goes over.

"What are you doing?" he says, when he gets close, and Jensen startles. He's only got one candle lit, there on the table by his elbow, and in the little pool of light Jared can see that he's writing something, in that smooth flowing script that Jared can't manage yet. "What's that?"

Jensen's got ink smeared on his jaw, on his fingertips where he's been clutching the quill. As Jared settles down onto the stool beside him, he's once again pink with embarrassment, but he doesn't hide the parchment away. "It's..." He bites his lip, then turns a hesitant look down at Jared. "It's something I've been thinking about, that's all. A secret, kind of."

"Oh." Jared swings his legs back and forth, drumming his heels against the solid mahogany legs of the stool. "I can go away if you want."

"No, that's alright," Jensen says, quickly, and a smile finds its way to Jared's mouth. Jensen smiles back, a little, but there's something serious about his eyes. "It's just—it's not ready for anyone to read yet, not even ready to talk about."

"Oh," Jared says again. He doesn't understand, really.

Jensen seems to sense that, because he bites his lip again and looks back down at the parchment. By the fire, the other children are giggling about something, and Jared kind of wants to go over and see what fun they're having, but he also likes it right here, quiet at Jensen's side.

"I'll tell you," Jensen says, finally. "As soon as I can, when it's ready. You're the first one I'll tell. Okay?"

Warmth curls in Jared's belly and he knows a huge grin breaks out on his face, and he throws his arms around Jensen's neck, hauling him into a hug. Jensen lets out a little _oof_  but it's only a second before he's hugging back. Jared presses his face into Jensen's neck, love for his best friend lighting him up on the inside, and it's then that the bells in the city start to toll out for midnight. The other children let out a little cheer, and Sandra calls for them to come and join in singing the hymn of the Longest Night. Jared pulls back to see that Jensen's smiling, too, and as he leads the way back to the fire with Jensen's hand caught firmly in his, he sends up a prayer to Blessed Elua in pure, joyous thanks.

*

Years pass. Two new girl-children come to the nursery, aged two and three, and Marina falls pregnant, gives birth to a sweet-tempered boy and looks after him and the girls full-time during her recovery. Jensen is afraid to hold the new baby, but Jared adores little Stephane, plays with him every chance he gets.

At the beginning of the spring Jensen turns twelve, Balm hosts a small gathering for the other Dowaynes of the Night Court and the older children are all called to attend, kneeling _abeyante_ for hours while the masters and mistresses of the Houses drink mulled wine, while they mingle and murmur amongst themselves. It's only once they're released to go to bed that Marina explains that it was the four children who were the real point of the whole ordeal—made clearer when, soon after, Sophia's marque is bought by Dahlia and Sandra's by Jasmine, to be held in trust until each of them turn ten. Sophia is reserved, of course, but nothing can subdue Sandra's ecstatic pleasure at the idea of serving Naamah in exotic Jasmine House. No matter how Jared wheedles, neither girl will tell him the prices their new Houses paid to Balm for their marques. "Don't be vulgar," Sophia says, but Sandra only giggles. She does whisper to him later, when they're training to hold serving trays full of wine with graceful strength, that after the negotiations the Second for Jasmine named her a _perfect blossom_ and kissed her mouth. For a moment, Jared is intensely jealous, but then Honore is instructing them to begin serving the wine to their imaginary guests and he has to concentrate on other things.

Sophia turns ten in midsummer of that year. It's an unusually warm day when the haughty-looking adept from Dahlia arrives to escort her away. Unexpectedly, Sandra bursts into tears, and though he tries to smile gracefully Jared's eyes fill, too. For once in her life Sophia unbends: she bites her lip and throws her arms around Sandra, and then embraces Jared, and Thomas, and even Jensen, who startles but then hugs her back, tightly. She sniffles against Jensen's shoulder and then takes a deep breath, and when she picks up her head she is unruffled but for the dampness around her eyes. Maxime kisses Sophia lightly on both cheeks, says, "You will be a credit to Balm, child," and then the Dahlia adept takes Sophia's hand and they're gone. It's the last Jared will see of her for a long, long time.

*

Jared and Sandra are almost nine and Jensen is newly thirteen when they're called to attend another gathering, serving properly this time in Balm's dark violet livery, with strict instructions from Maxime to be barely seen, and certainly not heard. It's a fete hosted by one of the Dowayne's favored patrons, the Comte de Rocaille, and he has rented out the entire house for he and his friends. The children kneel through dinner, and Jared is glad they were fed beforehand because his mouth waters at the scents of roast duck, sweet plum and candied almonds. Jensen quirks a small smile at him when his stomach rumbles. Once dinner is cleared the guests move to the largest salon, and Jensen and Thomas pull open the great glass doors to the gardens, let the sweet scents of late spring flow among the patrons.

The servants withdraw and the adepts take over, moving with calming grace through the gathering. Sandra, on her best docile behavior, fills goblets with wine, smiles with reserve when one of the patrons catches her eye. Thomas, Jared, and Jensen kneel near the entrance to the living quarters, observing quietly as they have been instructed.

Balm House gatherings are always quiet—not as reserved as those in Dahlia House, Jared has heard, but the adepts put the patrons at ease rather than goading them into merriment or provoking debauchery. Outside of the Dowayne's circle near where the children kneel, the other guests murmur quietly under the babble of the fountain and the simple songs Elodie plays from the harp in the corner. Jared watches with interest as Marina sinks into the lap of a blond man sitting by the hyacinth, murmuring into his ear so that he smiles a little, presses a kiss against the white skin of her throat.

"Off to Jasmine, then, little one?" he hears, and his attention drags away from Marina and her patron to find de Rocaille smiling pleasantly at Sandra. She curtsies, perfectly graceful, and de Rocaille's attention moves to the line of boys. Jared immediately lets his eyes go hooded, hopes that the comte didn't notice him staring. "Your nursery will soon exceed that of Cereus, Emmeline."

"I would never hope to exceed the First House, my dear comte," the Dowayne says, and Jared can't tell if she's fooling. "I only hope that Balm's little flowers grow to be a credit to Naamah."

De Rocaille kisses her hand, laughs a little, and a thrill lights up Jared's belly. The comte is a pleasant-looking man, his grey hair bound back with a sky-blue ribbon to match his silk doublet, his body still slim despite his years. It's exciting to see the Dowayne's words work on him, just as any adept would sway a patron with a beckoning smile.

"And what of these lovely boys?" de Rocaille is saying.

"The dark-haired one is ours," the Dowayne says, and Jared flushes, knowing what's coming. "We haven't yet decided on the other two. The smallest is likely headed for Orchis, or perhaps Heliotrope—" and Jared bites his cheek, because he hadn't known that, and his heart starts to race, _Heliotrope, or Orchis!_ —"but the older one there is as yet a mystery."

Jared daren't move, not with the Dowayne's attention upon them, but he can feel how Jensen goes tense at his side. Jensen's birthday came at the start of spring, and by rights he should have already been dedicated to Naamah, but he's still in the nursery with Jared, still sharing the same bed.

"A mystery? Come here, child," says de Rocaille. Jared sucks in a quiet breath, but watches covertly as Jensen rises and crosses the flagstone to sink _abeyante_ next to the settee the comte shares with the Dowayne, eyes downcast. In the candlelight, Jared can hardly see his freckles and his skin is a smooth, pale gold. "Hmm. Almost of age, I see. Will you keep him?"

The Dowayne twirls her silver goblet between her fingers, eyes appraising Jensen's form. It's perfect, at least, after all the long hours Jared has spent practicing with him. "What do you think?" she says, in the low, sweet voice she uses around all the patrons.

De Rocaille raises his eyebrows at her, but returns his attention to Jensen. "Well. What's your name, boy?" 

"Jensen," Jared hears, so quiet as to almost be a whisper. 

One of the comte's friends, a Kusheline noble from his coloring and clothes, smiles. It's broad and knowing, and makes Jared shiver a little, though he makes sure to keep  _abeyante_  and not draw any attention to himself. The nobleman leans forward and touches one finger to Jensen's chin, tilts his face up for inspection. "A shy one, I see," he says, but it doesn't sound kind like it does when Marina says it. "Perhaps to Alyssum?"

De Rocaille purses his lips, examining Jensen's face. "His eyes are certainly averted," he says, and a soft ripple of amusement passes through the group. "One cannot tell how deep such modesty goes."

The nobleman shifts, his finger sliding down the column of Jensen's throat until his hand can wrap around the fragile circumference. "Perhaps Valerian," he says, and his voice is mild but Jensen flinches, ever so slightly. "What do you think, little boy? Will you yield?"

Jared clenches his hands together in his lap, fighting the sudden urge to go over and slap the man's hand off of Jensen's skin, but luckily de Rocaille speaks first. "Baptiste," he says, disapproving, and the man laughs lightly but lets go of Jensen's neck, leaving behind white finger-marks that take a moment to fade. Now Jared can place him: Baptiste de Morhban, one of the Duc's younger cousins.

One of the adepts from Alyssum who came along with the group sinks to the couch next to de Morhban, offering a goblet of something, and de Morhban curls his arm around her, smiling and whispering into her ear. Jared sees the Dowayne's shoulders relax, if only slightly. She settles one hand on de Rocaille's shoulder, fingertips playing through the steel-grey fall of his hair. He eases into her touch, forgetting his irritation, and returns his attention to Jensen.

"Well. He cannot be Jasmine, not with that coloring." He strokes his fingers through Jensen's sandy-colored hair, that dark blond that the adepts assure them will end up a light, golden brown. "Nor Cereus, though he looks fragile enough. Not bold enough for Bryony, nor steely enough for Dahlia—though I'm sure you have hidden depths, my dear." He bends a little smile down at Jensen, then takes the smooth line of his jaw between careful fingers, tilting his face more toward the candlelight. Jensen keeps his eyes downcast ( _maybe he will go to Alyssum_ , Jared thinks, unbidden), his expression still and mild. "He can't go to Camellia, I see—not pure d'Angeline, no matter how pretty. Skaldi blood here, unless I miss my guess."

The Dowayne twirls her fingers through de Rocaille's hair, smiling, but Jared can tell she's surprised. "Well spotted," she says, voice placid. "From a grandsire, on his father's side. Hence the name, too, we think."

De Rocaille hums thoughtfully. "Look at me, boy," he says, after a few seconds, and Jensen obediently turns up his eyes. The green is a little darker in the candlelight, but still gold-flecked and so pretty surrounded by his sooty lashes. De Rocaille strokes his thumb along Jensen's cheekbone, only lately gaining its definition, and then releases his face, settling into the inviting curve of the Dowayne's side. "Well. If you don't keep him here, he'll fetch you a pretty price when you sell his marque."

There's a chuckle and Jared's attention snaps over to de Morhban, now laughing into the curve of the Alyssum adept's neck. "Not just the marque," he says, sliding one hand from the girl's hip down into her lap. She squirms, and Jared can feel his face heat. "Give him some training to go with that sweet face and present him at the right fete, and just imagine what you could fetch for his virgin price."

Jensen flushes, pink rising up his neck, and Jared bites his tongue at how clearly de Morhban enjoys discomfiting him, even with his hand between the legs of another adept. De Rocaille sends de Morhban a look that Jared can't interpret, but then shrugs, beckoning to Sandra for more wine. "Well, Emmeline?" he says to the Dowayne. "Will you give us a hint?"

The Dowayne rises smoothly to her feet, graceful as a new adept even at her age. "I'm afraid you'll need to wait and see, Charles," she says, lightly teasing, and gestures at Jensen. He stands almost as gracefully, his training not yet settled into his bones, and she kisses his cheek. "Time for bed, sweeting," she murmurs, and Jared's glad that she turned Jensen's back to the guests when his expression collapses in relief.

He keeps his head enough that he doesn't run over to the children's cushions, but his eyes are a little wide as he waits for Jared and Thomas to stand so they can all leave together. Sandra places the ewer of wine on the table at the Dowayne's nod and curtsies to the guests before Jensen starts to lead them behind the screens to the living quarters. Jared lets Sandra go before him, and pauses at the screen for one last look. De Rocaille and the Dowayne are moving away, towards her own chambers with her hand tucked into his elbow, and several of the other guests have paired off, either together or with adepts. Elodie is still playing at the harp in the corner, the music liquid and soothing even with one of the noble ladies laying kisses over her upturned face. From the doorway behind the screen, Sandra whispers, "Jared?" and he's about to follow when he catches de Morhban's eye. He has urged the Alyssum adept to her knees between his legs, and Jared can't see what she's doing, but de Morhban isn't paying her any attention—his mouth turns up at one corner, and his eyes flick from Jared to the shadowed corridor down which Jensen has already disappeared. His hand settles onto the back of the adept's head, fingers curling into her hair, and Jared can see her little flinch when he tugs at the dark brown waves. 

"Time for bed," de Morhban says, turning his eyes back to Jared. He shivers and goes before he can see anything else.

*

Summer's first blush has fallen upon the City of Elua and the gardens at Balm are so thick with flowers that the patrons nearly get drunk off their scent alone, but in the inner chambers Jared, Jensen, and Sandra cannot smell them. Instead, they're watching Josephine demonstrate the best methods of massaging tension away on a languid, sleepy Florent. An unfamiliar man is in the bedchamber, as well—he hasn't introduced himself, nor have Josephine or Florent acknowledged his presence, but Jared can't help but sneak glances at the stranger because he's just... startlingly beautiful. Josephine's thumbs drag up the column of Florent's spine, moving slippery through the sweet oil and obscuring the twined leaves of his unfinished marque. She's saying something about finding knots, how to insinuate relaxation through groups of muscles. Jared can pay her no attention.

The stranger is dressed well, as well as any lordly patron of the House would be, but a patron has never interrupted their lessons from what Jared can remember. Long dark hair spills over one shoulder and his eyes are a sharp, pale blue, as Jared learns when he inadvertently meets his stare. The stranger raises an eyebrow and Jared bows his head, knows his face is flushing scarlet at being caught looking. He lets his weight rest a little heavier on Jensen's shoulder and turns his eyes determinedly to how Josephine is sliding her hands over Florent's buttocks, tries to memorize the caress. It's only when the stranger leaves, and the tension in the body he's leaning against dissipates with a blown-out sigh, that he even notices that Jensen was nervous at all.

It's raining by the time the lesson is over. Sandra throws herself onto the divan in the nursery and declares that she'll be taking a nap and that, no, she shall _not_ be pleased if they make any noise while she's sleeping. Jared makes a face at her, once her eyes have closed. He's not sure where the smaller children have got to, but he doesn't particularly want to play with them, either.

He drops to the floor at Jensen's feet with a sigh. "I'm bored."

Jensen doesn't look up from the book of poetry he's been reading, but does at least pet a hand through Jared's hair. "I never would have guessed," he says, dry.

Fingernails scritch at the base of Jared's skull and he almost purrs, resting his chin on Jensen's knee. He wants to ask for a story, but Jensen says it's hard to come up with new stories when he's trying to read someone else's. The house isn't open to patrons tonight and they won't be called upon to serve, so dinner at least will be early. He nuzzles a little closer into the curve of Jensen's knee. The rain spatters against the window and he watches it with half-slitted eyes, humming idly. 

"Who was that who came to our lesson, d'you think?" he says, eventually. The rain is falling harder.

Jensen's hand stills in his hair for a moment, then resumes, carding through the length of it in slow, soothing pulls. "Not sure." There's a small rustle as he lets his book fall closed. "Maybe—"

"Boys," Jared hears, and he twists around to find Maxime standing in the open doorway, looking at them strangely.

He surges up to standing as smoothly as he can, Jensen following his lead just behind him. Jared bows his head respectfully, but in truth he has no idea what to do. The Second never comes to the nursery and rarely interacts with them at all, certainly not without sending an apprentice or at least a servant to make them ready first. In the silence, he's acutely aware of their simple house-tunics, his ruffled hair, and of Sandra, sleeping soundly in the corner.

"You'll attend me in the east salon," Maxime says, finally.

Jared lifts his head. "Yes, Maxime," he murmurs, with Jensen echoing just after him. He touches his hair, wondering how much time they have. "How shall we—"

Maxime waves a hand. "As you are," he says, that strange look still on his face. "Exactly as you are. Jensen, bring your book, it may be dull. Come along, right now."

He turns on his heel and disappears, soft footfalls receding down the corridor. Jared looks over his shoulder to find Jensen just as bewildered as he is, but there's nothing for it—their Second has given them a command, and even in gentle Balm that's not an order ignored lightly.

They follow Maxime's straight, slender back through the back corridors of the house. Giggles and light, unaffected conversations spill out of the private bedrooms of the adepts and apprentices, a snatch of music as someone practices their harp. When they finally reach the east salon, Jared sucks in a gasp between his teeth and has to fight not to step directly back into Jensen's chest. A light repast is laid on the sideboard and the air smells of summer cordial and wine, but more important are the five exquisite faces that turn to greet them. Three women and two men; they hail Maxime with warmth, paying the two boys no attention, but Jared's stomach squirms with mortification at his unpolished appearance, at his and Jensen's bare legs and feet below their tunics. The kneeling cushions he's accustomed to are missing and for a moment he thinks Maxime means for them to wait _abeyante_ on the bare floor. It's no less disconcerting when they get a quick glance and flick of fingers which leads them to sit on the divan closest to the sideboard, like they're _guests_ of all things.

His confusion is made no better when they're promptly ignored. Jensen is a rigid line of tension pressed up against his side and when Jared checks—yes, his cheeks are flaming, nearly hiding the freckles. Jared tucks his legs up beneath him and pushes his hair behind his ears, then does his best to follow Maxime's orders and just... attend.

Somehow, it's not a surprise that the stranger from their lesson is here. As the group converses about the recent great fete held at the palace to celebrate the birth of the queen's third child, Jared sees that the man is a little distant, cool as he sips at his wine and listens to the conversation. He sits beside a sweet-faced woman with hair the color of wheat, her gown a simple delicate pink, who listens to the conversation with eyes downcast and rarely contributes.

"Do you think the dashing Consort will get another boy on Anielle, or will it be girls forevermore?" The words are tactless but the tone is cheerful—this from the redheaded woman lounging nearly atop Maxime, her skirt spilling over his lap in a froth of silk the color of new leaves.

"My lord de Somerville tells me this last pregnancy was a hard one," says the dark-eyed woman occupying the window seat. She combs nimble fingers through the thick weight of her hair, shrugs elegant shoulders. "Perhaps little Jeanne-Marie will be the end of it."

While the guests throw out suggestions, Jared curls into Jensen's side, gives up on sitting still and perfect as a statue. They really are paying he and Jensen no mind, and anyway, this is fascinating. Maxime lets the redheaded woman shift around until her slippered feet are in his lap and he pats them absently, but he isn't acting like he would with a patron, isn't massaging her calves or soothing her. Jared's almost proud that they're being allowed to see this, even if he has no idea why. Jensen has opened his book of poetry and is resting it against his knee, but he's still tense and Jared doubts he's really reading it. He shifts a little, undecided, then slings his legs over Jensen's, leans his head against Jensen's shoulder and settles in with a tiny sigh. It's comfortable, and no one has protested. After a moment, the book gets propped on Jared's knee, instead, and Jared smiles, not bothering to hide it.

The conversation has been going in circles by the time the milk-pale man in the group stands, stretching languidly. "The Dauphin is healthy, Princess Adélaide is healthy, and by all accounts our newest princess is already a beauty," he says, in a slow, dreamy voice. He moves to the sideboard, crossing past Jared and Jensen without glancing at them. "What more could we want?"

Jared watches as he pours himself a draught of the white wine, fighting the urge to leap to his feat and help. It's only when the man draws the long fall of his ash-blonde hair over one shoulder that Jared sees that his shirt dips low—low enough to reveal the curve of a full moon inked onto his back, the deep blue of gentian blossoms scrolling over it and up his spine to end in a graceful finial at the nape of his neck. Jensen sucks in a breath beside him, obviously seeing it at the same time—this is an _adept_ , from Gentian House by his marque, and suddenly Jared's mind is racing.

He keeps his place, draped over Jensen's lap, but his eyes now dart from face to face, drawing conclusions with what he knows of the Court. The blonde woman in the pink gown, whose voice never rises above a bare murmur: she must be of Alyssum House, where modesty is trained into the adepts from birth. The redhead with the dancing eyes, laughing brightly now, is clearly of Orchis—and with how casual she is with Maxime, Jared realizes at last that these beautiful men and women are Seconds of the Night Court, here speaking with Maxime as equals, and his heart is suddenly pounding in his ears.

Disregarding his revelation, the adults' conversation continues. As the light starts slowly to fade, the rain slackens a little in its pounding against the window, eases to a spattering drizzle. A servant comes in to light additional candles, another to come in and pour more wine for the Seconds. The woman in the window seat is called upon to play the lyre, and she produces a song of such cheerful bawdy whimsy that Jared wants to laugh aloud. The Second from Orchis does, in bright peals that make even the cool-eyed man's lips curve up, and it's only once the song is over that Maxime says, "Well, then, are we ready?"

The guests and Maxime turn as one to face Jared and Jensen on their shared divan, and Jensen stiffens immediately in the face of all that beautiful attention. Jared swings his legs off of Jensen's lap but stays close, pressed in to his warm side. He drops his eyes, going on instinct, but he really doesn't have any idea what's going on.

"Well, perhaps a candidate for you after all, Chloe," says the cool-eyed man, and there's another peal of laughter from the cheery woman.

"I think not," says the quiet woman— _Chloe_ , Jared thinks, trying to get his bearings. "Not that one. He was watching the whole time, did you notice?"

"Jared isn't meant for Alyssum, no," Maxime says, and his voice has a wry edge to it. Jared can feel a flush creeping up his cheeks and he clasps his hands together between his bare knees, tries to look modest and calm. If he's been a discredit to the house—oh, Marina will be so disappointed. "The other, perhaps."

Chloe makes a little _hmm_ noise. Jensen's practically vibrating next to him and Jared tries to press his knee into Jensen's, but it doesn't seem to help. It's certainly no help when Maxime says, "Jensen," in his deep, kind voice, and Jensen has to rise, and stand where Maxime gestures, and Jared's left alone on the divan, watching covertly. Well—he _thought_ it was covertly, but apparently not.

The very pale man, the Gentian second, is draped at ease into the velvet armchair, slowly swirling his goblet of wine in a languid hand. "My name is Antony nó Gentian," he says, and Jensen effects a smooth bow—it looks silly in just the tunic, but his form is perfect. Antony smiles and lifts his goblet to Jensen in a little toast. "Very pleased to make your acquaintance," he says, and he might be making fun, but there's no trace of it in his expression.

"And yours, sir," Jensen says, voice soft. Chloe and the other two women are watching him closely, though they're still at ease in their seats. When Jared looks at the blue-eyed man, the man is looking directly back at him, and he drops his eyes again immediately. His face must be bright red, now.

"Jensen," Antony says. He shapes the name slowly, soft in his lovely mouth. "You're a little older than usual, are you not."

"Yes, sir," Jensen murmurs. Jared risks a glance up—he can't see Jensen's face, but his hands are clenched tight around the book of poetry he's holding behind his back.

Antony asks a few questions, then, simple things—how old is Jensen exactly, how long has he lived in the Night Court. Does he like Balm— _of course, sir,_ Jensen says, sounding honest, and Maxime smiles at him for it—and does he enjoy his studies, and then the questions get a little stranger— _what is your favorite bloom in the Dowayne's garden,_ he's asked, and there's a long pause before Jensen says he doesn't have a favorite, he likes so many, and then Antony says, "And what do you dream about, Jensen?"

There's a silence. "Sir?" Jensen says, and now his shoulders are rigid under the thin tunic. Jared bites at his lip. He knows part of what Jensen dreams about, and it's nothing that he would ever share with a stranger. Jared doesn't understand everything, but he knows that.

Antony lifts his chin—he'd looked barely interested up to that point, but now his eyes narrow, his mouth parting just a fraction. "Ah," he says, but not like he meant anyone to hear.

"Antony?" Maxime says.

He looks at Jensen for another moment, then sinks back into his chair. "My apologies," he says, and he says it to the other adults but his eyes flick back to Jensen. "It was a possibility, but—no. Not without causing harm where none need be caused."

The red-headed woman claps her hands together, suddenly, and Jared starts. "None of your mystic nonsense, Anty," she says, propping her elbow on the arm of the settee. "Roxane, dearest, lead us away from all this silly solemnity."

"Félicie," says the dark-eyed woman, standing up with a swirl of silk skirt. "I believe Quintus was your dearest when we started the evening."

"My dearest shifts according to the needs of the moment," Félicie says, with a sunny grin at Roxane, and the last man—Quintus, apparently—rolls his eyes.

Roxane takes a few steps closer to Jensen and tips his chin up with two slender fingers, and examines his face. She's tall, much taller than Jensen, and her smooth olive skin is a pretty contrast against his pale gold. She hums, and then shakes her head. "I'm not sure," she says, and unlike Antony she doesn't seem to be addressing Jensen at all. She drops her fingers and moves past him, to the sideboard where the wine is waiting. "Chloe, he might be for you after all."

Félicie groans, a delicate little noise. "That was dull, I was hoping she was going to make him sing," she says, to Maxime, who tweaks one of her red curls.

"Well, it's a waste of time for me," Quintus says, and joins Roxane in pouring himself some wine.

"Now, Quintus," says Maxime, and Quintus makes an undignified snort, something Jared has _never_ heard from an adept.

He leans back against the sideboard. "Nightblooming Heliotrope turns toward whatever sun is paying for its attention," he says, gesturing with his goblet from Jared to Jensen. "It's a sorry sun who must drag his worshiper's love away from a rival who has already caught it. The patron is ill-served—and it's bad for business, to boot."

Jared frowns, because he doesn't really know what that means, but—he remembers: _Heliotrope, or Orchis_. His belly squirms unpleasantly. He wishes he and Jensen could just go back to the nursery.

"Oh, yes, I see what you mean," Antony says, but his voice is softer than Quintus's was.

"That's delightful," Félicie says, and sounds like she means it. "Jared, is that right?"

Jared jerks his head up to find her sitting upright, smiling his way, and he finds his feet immediately, bows as Jensen did. "Yes, my lady," he says, mouth dry.

She laughs, a brief bright sound. "Sweet manners you give your boys," she says, to Maxime, and then beckons so that Jared crosses the room to where she sits upon the settee. "Pretty boy, too," she says, approving, when Jared's in front of her. She runs a hand through his hair, smooths it down behind his ear. She's young, Jared sees—older than most of the adepts he knows, of course, but the youngest in the salon by far. She tweaks his nose, startling him, and then smiles broadly, and he can't help but smile back.

"Oh, precious," she says, tapping one of his dimples with a soft finger. "Did you like Roxane's song, sweet thing?"

"Yes, my lady," Jared says, flushing all over again. She raises her fine arched eyebrows, clearly inviting him to continue, but all he can think to say is: "It made me laugh."

"The best thing you can say for a song," Félicie says, like she's telling him a secret. Quintus groans, over by the sideboard, and Félicie shakes her head at him—and then refocuses her attention on Jared, all deep green eyes and pretty smile. Jared is half in love with her, already. "How would you like to come and live in Orchis House, dearest?"

 _Dearest_ , Jared thinks, in a daze, and then when she raises her eyebrows again he blurts out, "Oh! Yes! Yes, please, my lady."

Maxime sighs, and Roxane lets out a rich laugh. Félicie pats Jared's cheek and then nods at the settee, and he scrambles back to sitting with his heart thumping high in his throat. _Orchis_. "My way is easy, you must admit," Félicie is saying, and Jared bites hard into the inside of his cheek so he won't wear the silliest face ever. He could shout aloud for happiness, only—Jensen's still standing, left in the center of the room with his eyes cast down to the floor, and he doesn't have a place to go, yet.

"Well, then—not Heliotrope, nor Gentian," Quintus says, with cool eyes on Jensen, and it's cruel, Jared wants to hate him, but the way he says it is matter-of-fact. "Nor Orchis, unless Félicie's test can uncover some deeply hidden depths."

"Hush," Félicie says, and Jared loves her a little more for it. It's not that—Jensen can be happy, Jared's seen it. He thinks so, anyway.

"Well, then." Maxime stands, hands clasped loosely before him. "Chloe?"

Chloe has been silent, watching, and she tips her head, looking at Jensen's downturned face.

Roxane puts down her wine and takes swift steps across the parquet. "What's that," she says, and before Chloe can speak Roxane has tweaked the volume of poetry out of Jensen's hands.

"Jensen enjoys reading, he's very skilled in his letters," Maxime says, but Roxane is shaking her head, impatient, flicking through the little book.

Jensen's empty hands are clenched into fists at his sides, and he's tense—Jared can tell even from here that he wants to take the book out of Roxane's hands, but he daren't. Surely, he wouldn't, Jared hopes, because that would certainly lead to rather more than a scolding.

A piece of foolscap comes away from the book—folded a few times to fit inside its soft leather cover and hidden, like a marker. Roxane pulls it open while Antony asks, "What is it?" and she reads it swiftly, with a lightly furrowed brow. Her eyes flick back up to Jensen with sudden interest.

"This is yours?" she says, but Jensen is silent. She looks at his face for a moment, and then nods, though Jared couldn't see that his expression changed, at all. "Accepted, but when you're asked a question you'll answer it, Jensen."

Her voice isn't sharp or cruel, but it is firm, and Jensen says, "Yes, my lady," and turns his eyes to the floor.

"No," she says. "Look up. At me, now." He follows her command, confused, but Jared sees his fists unclench. "You read, yes? Recite a line of verse for me."

Sometimes, when Jared isn't ready for sleep and when Marina has left to put the smaller children to bed, Jensen will read aloud for them. Even Sandra stays quiet and listens, when he does. Most of the poems in the books the house keeps are love poetry, sometimes bawdy rhyme, intended for the patrons' entertainment more than the adepts, but Jensen reads it all. What he recites, though, is something Jared doesn't recognize. He blinks at Roxane, and takes a deep breath, and then in his light sweet voice says, " _The bee is in the lavender, the honey fills the comb; but here a rain falls never-ending, and I am far from home_."

Antony tips his head, and Maxime frowns, but after a brief pause Roxane nods once more. She hands the book and the piece of foolscap back to Jensen. "Yes," she says, looking up at Maxime.

"I can't imagine the boy as a mummer," Quintus says, cradling his wine against his chest.

"There is a reason you are Heliotrope's Second, and not Eglantine's," Roxane says, with some asperity. She turns from Jensen and retrieves her own goblet from the table, the matter apparently concluded. Jensen stands alone where he's been left, and he looks from her amber-silk back to Maxime, but they're no longer paying him any attention.

"If you're sure?" Maxime says, and Roxane nods, as does Félicie when he looks her way. Félicie smiles again at Jared, at least. "Very well. I shall let Emmeline know she can expect your House's offers soon, then."

Jared feels as though his world has tilted on its edge. So long without knowing, and now— _Orchis!_ he thinks again, a fizz in his chest, and Jensen will go to Eglantine, and they will both become adepts and take patrons and serve Naamah and everything will be perfect, he knows it. Maxime stands and puts a hand on Jensen's shoulder, leads him over to the divan. "You may go, boys," he says, and he gives them a smile, if only a very small one. "Go and find your supper, and then sleep well."

"Yes, Maxime," Jared says, Jensen echoing him a half-second later.

It's a struggle to be dignified, and quiet, as they walk through the back corridors to the nursery. When they come through the door Sandra is playing with the little girls, while Marina feeds Stephane. "Where have you been?" Marina says, and Jared races across the floor and embraces her about the neck, only barely remembering to be careful of the baby.

"They chose us!" he says, giddy. Marina pats his shoulder, but when he pulls back she's confused, and looks to Jensen for an explanation.

"Our marques," Jensen says. He's holding his book against his chest, his arms folded tight over it. "The Seconds, they agreed. Jared to Orchis, and mine—I'm going to Eglantine." He sits down, then, folds right down onto the rug next to little Lillian where she's babbling at her dolly.

"Isn't it wonderful?" Jared says, and Sandra claps, comes to hug him, too. Only a year, he thinks, squeezing her tight—a year until he gets to go to his new home. He can hardly wait.

"I'm happy for you, Jared," Marina says, smiling at him. She pulls Stephane sleepily away from her breast and transfers him to her shoulder to pat his back. Her smile goes smaller when she looks at Jensen. "We'll have to practice your singing," she says. Jensen blinks at her, his face pale. "You'll do the House proud, Jensen."

He looks down at his lap, holding his book loosely between his hands. "Yes, Marina," he says, after a moment. "I'll do my best."

*

The negotiations begin swiftly, and couriers go back and forth between the houses for a few weeks after that day. Orchis seems to finish first, because one day Jared is summoned alone to Maxime's chambers, and dressed carefully in white with a deep violet ribbon binding his hair, with another tied in a simple bow over his right wrist. It's a warm day, light streaming in through the windows and the doors to the greenhouse flung wide so that the flower-scent seeps through the whole house. He follows Maxime to the Dowayne's office, on his best behavior, but it's hard to maintain poise when they come through the door and Félicie is there, waiting, this time in a gown of sky blue with her fiery hair done in an elaborate braid down her back. She gives him another smile, but she and the Dowayne are conversing pleasantly, and he finds the kneeling cushion and sinks to it, _abeyante_ , watching the adults talk through his eyelashes as best he can.

Maxime gives Félicie the kiss of greeting and a maidservant pours wine, and after a brief toast to each others' health they settle to business.

"Madame," Félicie says, formally. Her face is still pleasant, but much of her laughing glow is muted. "Will you accept my Dowayne's offer for the bond-price of this child?"

"Martin drives a hard bargain," the Dowayne says, lacing her hands atop her desk. "Surely, with a laugh so sweet, young Jared would be a perfect jewel in Orchis's crown."

Jared feels his face go hot, but Félicie only smiles. The Chancellor of the house, an older man Jared has seen only once or twice, waits to the side with Maxime while the women speak—except, Jared sees, he is already holding a scroll of fine vellum, and pen and ink sit ready on the desk for the contract to be signed. His stomach turns, slowly, but he isn't exactly nervous. This is a thing already done and his future is set—all that remains are the finer details.

When they finish, the Dowayne smiles, truly, the fine lines beside her eyes crinkling. "Well, then. I think we are agreed?"

"Eighteen hundred ducats," Félicie says, with a nod. "Plus any unwanted offspring for five years to be placed with Balm House for fostering."

Jared kneels, mouth dry, while the Chancellor presents the contract for their approval. Félicie signs first, and the Dowayne after, and then Maxime appears beside Jared, and pulls him to his feet. "Your hand, sweetling," he murmurs, and after a confused second Jared holds out his wrist, and the violet ribbon is pulled away, leaving his skin bare. The Chancellor has already sanded and dried the signatures, so all that is left is to roll the contract so that Maxime can tie it closed with the ribbon from Jared's wrist. It is sealed to the vellum with wax, and the Dowayne affixes her seal.

"It will be held in trust until he reaches ten years," the Dowayne says. The Chancellor bows and then disappears with Jared's contract tight between his hands.

"We will send word for the gold to be transferred to Balm within the week," Félicie responds, and then she clicks her fingers. A footman appears in Orchis's rose-and-gold livery, bearing a small velvet lady's bag. "With your permission?" she says, and the Dowayne nods. "Come here, then, Jared."

He walks the few steps to her chair, and watches while from the bag she produces a length of ribbon in softest blush pink. This she twines around his wrist, once and then twice and then tied with a simple knot so the ends trail past his fingertips. "You'll be home soon," she says, smiling at him, and kisses his forehead, and then his mouth. He presses his fingers to his lips and Félicie laughs, merry, while his face grows hot. Honore appears, then, and takes him by the hand to lead him out of the office. He looks over his shoulder as he's led away, the silk ribbon brushing his skin, and hears the adults toast to Naamah before the doors swing closed.

He can hardly sleep that night, laying beside Jensen in the warmth of their nursery bed. Marina helps him to tie the pink ribbon into a lover's knot and he tucks it under the mattress for safe-keeping, just one trailing end slipping out so he can rub it between his fingers, now and then. He's idly toying with the soft end one evening while Jensen reads fairy-stories aloud, and Sandra and the little children are long asleep when Jensen halts midsentence in the middle of the tale of the mermaid who found a wife.

There's a long pause, and Jared turns over to see Jensen sitting up in bed with the book open in his lap. "I thought you were asleep," Jensen says, but it's—distant, like he's thinking of something else.

The candles are just bright enough that Jared can see the unhappy expression on Jensen's face. "What is it?" he says, rolling a little closer.

"When they finish haggling, I'll go directly to Eglantine." Jensen rubs his thumb over the drawing on the page, the mermaid half out of the water, touching the wife's face. "I'm too old already, they'll have to start my training right away."

Jared sits up. He—hadn't thought of that. Next summer, he'd thought, because that was how long _he_ had to wait—but, of course, Jensen is thirteen, and so will be taken away and dedicated immediately. "But—that will leave me here just with Sandra," Jared says, and feels stupid as soon as he does. Jensen puts the book aside and draws his knees up, circling his arms around them loosely. He's staring away into the dark outside the pool of candlelight and feels suddenly—distant, from Jared, in a way he has never been. Jared has never felt the difference in their ages, or in their circumstances, but suddenly it's rushing in. Things are going to change, and soon.

He puts a hand on Jensen's arm, feels the warmth through the soft of the sleep-shirt he still wears. "I know you'll be busy, learning. And we'll be in separate houses. But—" He falters, and swallows. It takes a moment before he can continue. "We will see each other. Won't we?"

Jensen looks at him, at last, and for the first time in a very long while Jared feels almost like he might cry. But Jensen takes his hand, where it rests still on his arm, and squeezes it tight. He doesn't smile, but he's—there, looking right at Jared, and the tears recede as fast as they came. Jensen takes a deep breath. "We will," he says, firm. He shifts around so that they're sitting crosslegged facing each other, their knees touching, and he clasps both of his hands around Jared's one, his face suddenly full of a fierce determination. Jared's made aware, all at once, that Jensen's bigger than him. "We will," Jensen says again, looking into his eyes. "I'll find a way. I'll sneak out, if I need to, or you can, and I'll write to you. Every day, I swear it."

Jared squeezes his hands, feels himself smiling. "We can run away and play all day in the City until the footmen catch us," he says, imagining. What a game it would be—he and Jensen out beyond the walls, running through the streets below the slope of Mont Nuit, places Jared has never seen.

"Say it, and we will," Jensen says, serious. "Jared, if you ask, I'll go with you."

It's a feeling like his heart is swelling, like it's growing too large for the slender cage of his ribs. A feeling like he's going to weep, only somehow it's through his whole body. He presses a kiss to Jensen's knuckles, and then rides the surge of feeling to lean in and kiss Jensen's mouth, once. It's clumsy, nothing like when Félicie's lips met his own, but Jensen sucks in a breath, anyway. Jared pulls back to see that Jensen's eyes are wide, his mouth parted, and Jared—there's nothing he can say to match what he feels, and that's not his skill, anyway. He disentangles their hands and surges forward and throws his arms around Jensen's neck, instead. Jensen lets out a small _oof_ , but catches him, and hugs him back hard, so hard that it's difficult for Jared to breathe. He puts his face right alongside Jensen's, their cheeks pressing together, and doesn't say a thing.

 *

It's just a week later, a warm and golden afternoon, when Josephine enters the nursery, interrupting their singing practice. "Jensen," she says, beckoning, and Jared's belly twists.

Jensen takes a deep breath and gets to his feet, but pauses. "Will I—" he says, and swallows. "Will I get to come back here, first?"

Josephine, always kind, comes and embraces him gently around the shoulders. "Yes, I promise, darling," she says. "Maxime would hear of nothing else."

Jensen nods, against her breast, and when she releases him he glances back at Jared only once before he squares his shoulders and follows her out of the nursery.

"I wonder what they'll pay for his marque," Sandra says, all eager gossip, but Jared can't join in it. The queer feeling in the pit of his stomach is back.

Jensen is gone for what feels like ages longer than Jared's own turn took. Marina has luncheon with them, and Jared tries to distract himself by playing peek-a-boo with little Stephane, but his heart's not in it. While they wait, Marina helps to comb his hair and Sandra's, and they dress in Balm's livery. It isn't precisely a formal occasion, but to see their playmate off in front of the Seconds of two houses—it has the feel of ceremony to it.

It's dusk by the time Jensen comes back, followed by a maidservant. Jared scrambles to his feet from the cushion where he'd been nervously waiting. Jensen is pale, but lovely, with his hair bound back from his face with a green ribbon, in a cream-colored shirt and soft fawn leggings. "I'm to pack," he says, blinking at them, and Marina goes immediately to the maidservant and leads her along to the bedroom, murmuring in her ear. Sophia had taken nothing with her when she left, and Jared's confused—but, perhaps this is another difference between the houses.

"How much?" Sandra says, when they're alone, her eyes gleaming. Jared thinks sometimes that Bryony should have bought her marque, not Jasmine, so obsessed is she with gold.

"Twelve hundred ducats," Jensen says, and he wavers for a moment there in the doorway. Jared blinks, surprised that the price is so low, and Sandra leans back in her seat with a trace of a smile on her face. She's never said how much Jasmine paid, but clearly it was higher than that.

Jensen looks down at his hands. "When we were traveling," Jensen says then, very slowly, and Jared stiffens because Jensen never, ever speaks of his life before, not since that one terrible night. "If we had ten ducats we celebrated, because that was food for a week."

Sandra frowns, confused, but before anything else can be said Marina and the maid come back into the room, the maid bearing a cloth-wrapped bundle. "The Dowayne gave permission for you to take a book if you wanted, Jensen," Marina says, and Jensen hesitates only for a moment before he names the fairy-stories they'd been reading for the past week. Marina goes to retrieve it from the bedroom, as the maid doesn't have her letters and could not, and then the bundle is tied up—the sleep-shirt, and Jensen's no longer secret writings, and his favored book, and everything that would have tied him to Balm. "The courtyard, then," Marina says, gently, and Jared's belly wrenches, and then he thinks—

"I'll be there in a moment," he says, and darts away, down the corridor. In the kitchen one of the maids is always mending something—and yes, there's Ada, embroidering in the heat of the kitchen and laughing with Cook, and he darts in and steals her scissors with a breathless, "Sorry!" Then the dash back down the corridor, ignoring the shout of surprise and anger, and into the dim empty bedroom, and he yanks his silk ribbon out from under the bed—their bed—and undoes the lover's knot with a quick tug. One snip—and then he's running again, through the familiar rear hallways of the house, dodging a surprised couple of adepts, and then he reaches the exit into the courtyard he tries to move more sedately.

Marina is there, Stephane held close against her chest, and the little girls, and Sandra. Honore has come, too, and Florent, and when Jared emerges from the house Maxime is kissing Jensen's cheeks in soft farewell. "My dear boy," he says, smiling, but sad, too. "May Elua grant that you find happiness in Eglantine House."

Jensen nods, against where Maxime's palm cups his cheek, but he doesn't respond.

"Jensen," Jared says, almost breathless.

The footmen have lit the torches and braziers in the courtyard, so despite the dusklight it's still easy to see Jensen's eyes—deep green in the shadows, now, but the whites reddened as though with tears. Jared steps forward, aware of Maxime and also of Roxane, standing near to the coach in a striking emerald gown, her eyes watchful.

"For you," Jared whispers, when he's close, and Jensen holds out his hands to receive the length of soft silk ribbon, half of Jared's gift from Félicie. It's only a bit crumpled from where Jared had held it too tight, but Jensen clutches it close anyway, crumples it further against his breast. "For you to remember."

Jensen nods, wordless, and then grabs Jared by the shoulders and hauls him in, hugs him hard with his face pressing down into Jared's shoulder. His breath comes hot through the velvet of Jared's thin doublet, but he doesn't cry.

"It's time, Jensen," Roxane says.

There's another nod, down against Jared's shoulder, and then he pulls away, the length of pink ribbon caught up in his clenched fist. He doesn't say goodbye—only steps quietly across the flagstone to where Roxane waits with the coach, and climbs into its dark interior. Roxane nods to Maxime and follows, and then the Eglantine footmen close the door and cluck to the horses, and then they're moving away—the horses hooves clacking against the stone, the green-and-white livery of the footmen receding as they move further from the torchlight.

Florent puts his hand on Jared's shoulder. "Do not weep, sweetling," he says, softly, and Jared realizes only then that his cheeks are wet, his face hot and his chest aching.

*

At first Jared cannot sleep and feels as though his heart is broken, but time passes, as it does, and life begins to seem normal. Notes arrive from Jensen—not every day, of course, because the couriers have better things to do than to carry letters from child to child—but they do come, sporadically. Jared reads with avarice, even the simple common things that Jensen sends him in his fine hand—that he has met the other apprentices, that his singing is respected but his harp and lute needs improvement, that he will be paired with an adept to mentor him in his writing. Two months away and a very brief note, which Honore brings down to the nursery out of her own correspondence— _I have been dedicated to Naamah,_ Jensen writes, _and now the training begins in earnest_.

The letters slow, then, as Marina warned they would. "He will be very busy," she said, when Jared whined. "You'll see soon enough, little orchid."

The Longest Night is very long without Jensen, though he and Sandra still play as best they can when it's only the two of them. Thomas spends more and more time with the apprentices, approaching his own dedication. In the early spring a new girl comes to the nursery, fostered from Cereus, with bright copper hair and a gentle manner that's even softer than Thomas's, and she's kind but Jared doesn't play with her as much as he would have, before. Everything feels like it's holding its breath, his whole world waiting.

After midsummer, when the days go hot and bright and the Court hardly wakes, waiting for the cool of evening—that is when Jared turns ten. He wakes that day with a knot of nervousness in his belly, but he's excited, too. He bathes, alone, and afterward Josephine and Florent dress him in a cream shirt and breeches, the same sort of clothes that Jensen wore on his last day in the house. The halved pink ribbon Florent uses to tie the loose plait of his hair, since it's now too short to knot around his wrist. Florent kisses his temple when he's done, and Jared hugs him impulsively around the waist. "How could there ever have been doubt," Florent says, smiling down at him. "Joyous down to your bones, you are."

What follows blurs, a little. Orchis sends another adept in Félicie's place, a man of average height with shoulder-length auburn hair. He meets Jared with the kiss of greeting, as though he were an adult, and gives him a wide smile. "Ready, little flower?" he says, and Jared nods, grinning back. He embraces Sandra, and all of the adepts who have been so kind to him—Florent and Josephine and Honore and Marina—and accepts his kiss from Maxime with a thrill. "Be well, Jared," Maxime says, simply, and then—into the coach with the adept, and for the first time Jared sees Mont Nuit, outside of the walls of Balm House.

The thirteen Houses of the Court of Nightblooming Flowers vary in size, and prestige, but Mont Nuit has been theirs for nigh six hundred years. Jensen told Jared that, from a book he read, and it's still hard for Jared to fathom. Balm's grounds sit halfway up the slope, and Orchis is higher still, so Jared watches out the window as the coach climbs the winding cobbled street. The estates adjoin each other, Jared sees—there, the opulent gates with footmen in gold, that must be Bryony House, and only a little further up the hill are the green-and-white footmen of Eglantine. His belly thrills and for a moment he wants to lean out of the coach and wave to Jensen, but—well, it's not as though Jensen would be able to see it. The adept with him, who introduces himself as Antoine, smiles at Jared's excitement, and when Jared catches a glimpse of a coach with the royal Courcel swans on its door and gasps, actually laughs.

"Who do you think visits our Court, dear thing?" Antoine says, his eyes dancing. "I promise you, your patrons will be wealthy merchants and young lordlings, but there will be princes, too." Jared gives him full attention—he has seen some little of what happens between an adept and a patron, but no detail, and it fascinates him in a way little else does. Antoine waves a hand, though. "Never mind, never mind. Just you enjoy the summer day. There will be time enough for patrons later. Today is more important, no?"

The coach approaches Orchis, then, and the footmen swing open the gates to admit them. The courtyard is larger than Balm's, Jared sees—but then Antoine is stepping down from the coach and holding out his hand for Jared to take, and a footman bows and opens the great door for them, and then Jared steps into the hall of his new home. It is airy, the hall wide enough for a fete of at least a hundred, and the great high windows make it brighter than Balm, but it is not so different, really. Before Jared can work out whether he's disappointed or relieved, Antoine hands him over to two female adepts, both sunny but businesslike, and he's swept away into the back corridors of the house to be prepared.

An hour later, and he's dressed in a pale gold tunic, a softer version of Orchis's bold livery, and his hair has been re-bound into a more elaborate braid, though the girls still tied it with the pink ribbon Félicie gave him. Perfume is dabbed at his throat and wrists, a thin line of kohl applied to his eyes, and then the girls lead him through the house, whispering to each other and giggling as they move along through the unfamiliar corridors. A footman opens a new set of doors, bows them through it, and then Jared is left blinking in the sunlight. There is no greenhouse as Balm has, but there is a decorative garden and a wide green lawn, and on it are laden tables draped with colorful fabric under a white canopy, and the House is waiting for him.

It is a crowd, adepts he's never met in a rainbow of colors, fine velvets and bright silk, flowers and jewels alike. They're chattering, when the doors open, but they soon go quiet—but there is no solemnity here, only bright smiles, whispers and laughter. The girls urge him forward and so he walks, barelegged and barefooted, over the lush thick grass, to where Félicie waits in her green silk gown, her eyes sparkling as she holds out her hand to Jared. An older man sits on a wide stone bench a few feet beyond her—his new Dowayne, Jared immediately realizes. The man is handsome, still, perhaps a few years older than the Dowayne of Balm—his hair is steel gray all over, but thick and shining, in a long braid that rests over his shoulder. He watches Jared's approach with a small smile, the lines deep beside his eyes and near his mouth. When Jared reaches Félicie he kneels _abeyante_ , in the grass, feels it thick and warm against his skin, and the Dowayne's smile widens, just for a moment.

The adepts spread out, murmuring as they form a loose semi-circle around the Dowayne's seat, and then Félicie claps her hands, twice, and they fall quiet.

"When Blessed Elua came to Persis, he was captured by the King and chained in a cell," Félicie says. Her voice is high and bright, the words well-practiced. "There were angels who heard of this and descended from the One God's heaven to the earth to save him and to walk with him in his wandering. It was Naamah, eldest sister, who came to the King and offered her body in exchange for Elua's freedom."

The sacred tale, passed down and down, welcoming each apprentice into their new home. _Six hundred years on Mont Nuit_ , comes Jensen's voice in his head, and yet the Houses themselves went back further still. Jared feels an instant snap of connection, there in the grass with the sun warm on his face—all of the long generations, and it is at last his turn to serve.

"The King was cruel, but he accepted Naamah's offer and took her to his bedchamber." Félicie bends, then, and tilts up Jared's face to her own, her beautiful eyes on his. "Naamah came to him smiling, and though he had only ever before laid with another to prove his power, she showed him the great joy to be found in it, and brought happiness to his bed. When we serve Naamah in this house we strive to do the same: to find joy in laughter, to bring our patrons light." She smiles at him, then. "Do you understand?"

He nods, tears pricking behind his eyes, and she cups his cheek in her hand before she steps back, and a maidservant steps forward with a finely carved wooden bowl.

"Stand, child," the Dowayne says, and his voice is musical, light. Jared's knees wobble, but Félicie takes his elbow and leads him the few steps closer. The Dowayne plucks from the bowl a single orchid, white petaled with a deep magenta heart, and pins the blossom to Jared's breast. Then he draws Jared even closer, between his knees, and kisses both of his cheeks and then the smooth spot between his brows. Jared closes his eyes, breathes in. "Be welcome to our House," the Dowayne says, then, "Jared nó Orchis."

A cheer goes up among the adepts and somewhere, a lute immediately begins playing. Jared opens his eyes to find the Dowayne still smiling at him, holding his face between his hands. "You will have a bright future, Jared," he says, under the noise. "You will do Naamah proud."

"Thank you, my lord," Jared whispers—and then Félicie spins him around and kisses his cheek, and draws him into the crowd of adepts to be embraced and kissed and feted. It would be better if Jensen were there—if Jared could hold his hand, and see the smile enter his eyes—but there, among the flowers of his new home with the sun shining, Jared feels no sadness, and no solitude, and his heart fills to the brim with bright, simple joy.


	2. Orchis

With autumn drawing close over the City of Elua, the linden trees lining the boulevards of Mont Nuit are threaded through with gold. The chill of morning takes longer to dissipate and the servants bustle through the rear corridors of the house, preparing for the cold season, while grey rainy days cover the city in fog—but the evening steals over the City sooner, too, and that is when the Night Court comes to life.

Jared is careful as he lights the little candle under the silver censer, and more careful as he places the lump of thick amber wax in the warming dish inside. He chose the canella for this evening, and already it smells… warm, inviting, the spice of it starting to fill the air. He closes the censer and places it on the credenza under the window, set between the bouquet of white chrysanthemum and the sculpture of Naamah’s hands. The hands are held open, inviting, their delicate spread suggesting an offering being made. Jared touches the left thumb, the white marble cool under his finger, and wonders how full those hands will be left this evening.

"Canella?" he hears, and spins around to find Richard leaning in the doorway in his dressing gown, smiling at him. "Why that one?"

Jared clasps his hands together. "An autumn scent," he says. "Comforting, but exotic, too. To make the patron feel both at home, and as though they are somewhere special."

Richard laughs and comes fully into the room. "Always such clever reasoning, darling," he says, and cups Jared’s cheeks in both hands. Jared feels a flush rising up, already, as always happens. Richard pinches the pink of it, just softly. "And always so sweet," he murmurs, his smile warm. He runs his thumb over Jared’s cheek, shaking his head just a little, and then lets him go and nods toward the side chamber, off of the bedroom. "Come along, it’s nearly time."

Jared follows, obedient, though he hardly needs to be encouraged. This is his favorite part of his day, most days. Behind the thick velvet curtain hides the bathing room, where the patrons and adepts may refresh themselves before or after an assignation, but it also holds the elegantly appointed vanity where Richard prepares for his evenings. The suit for the evening has already been delivered to the bedchamber by the maid, pressed and cleaned, and Jared busies himself with hanging it up, carefully brushing the silk doublet and breeches, while Richard disappears behind the screen. Jared isn’t yet allowed to aid with what might happen behind it, though he knows a bit of what does from the adepts’ gossip. He makes sure that the jasmine-scented oil is always available, since he knows it’s Richard’s favorite scent.

Richard emerges after only a few minutes, his dressing gown loosely tied so that Jared can see his white chest, the perfectly groomed traces of hair under his navel that dip down below the rich fall of plum-colored silk. "I think a braid tonight, darling," he says, sitting at the vanity before the mirror, and so Jared moves behind him, gathering the silky weight of his long hair. He’s done this so many times now that he hardly has to watch the movement of his own hands, and so he watches Richard in the mirror, instead. White skin, yes, but the faintest peach flush at cheeks and chest, and a pouty pink bow of mouth. He’s slight, barely a foot taller than Jared, and his muscles are slim and subtle on his frame, and as Jared finishes the complex weave of his braid and lays it in a thick black rope over Richard’s shoulder—he opens his eyes, smiles his thanks, and Jared feels himself flush all over again.

"Do you have a particular assignation tonight?" he asks, to cover his embarrassment.

Luckily, Richard is as tactful as he is lovely, and he turns his attention to the drawer of cosmetics. "No, not this evening. Tomorrow, my lady Desmarais will return from summering in Siovale, and she has sent word ahead that she will see me at my earliest convenience—but tonight, who knows?"

Jared takes the pot of kohl and the fine brush when they’re handed to him, and takes a deep breath to ensure a steady hand when Richard tilts up his perfect face, eyes closed. His lashes are dark and long already and so Jared needs only draw the thinnest line to accentuate the tip-tilt of his lids. "Nothing else tonight?" he asks, quiet.

"No—in the red silk, more would be vulgar." Richard opens his eyes, and so close Jared can see the clear, deep brown of them, so dark they seem black in the candlelight. Richard bats his lids, coquettish, and Jared can’t help but laugh. A glance in the mirror makes Richard smile, too. He’s always smiling. "Well done, sweet. Help me dress, now."

The silk suit for the evening isn’t quite _red_ —it’s the color of currants, the fabric rich and deeply dyed, glinting beautifully in the candlelight. It’s Jared’s second-favorite, after the mahogany. He runs careful fingers around the hems, over the delicate embroidered detailing on the sleeves, checking for loose threads the maids might have missed, while Richard sheds the dressing gown and loops it casually over the screen. He dabs jasmine perfume behind his ears, in the crooks of his elbows and on the waxed bare skin under his arms, on the soft skin of his inner thighs—all those places the blood will heat it and make the scent rise intoxicatingly from his flesh. Jared has already laid out the hose and he watches while Richard rolls them up just above the knee, tying them into place with ribbons at the back of each thigh, the creamy white of the silk not contrasting with his skin at all. The corset, next, and Jared helps to lace it in place where it will show off the slight rise of Richard’s pectoral muscle to best effect. He’d been confused at the addition, when first he started to assist, and Richard had laughed delightedly— _such delicate flowers from Balm,_ he’d said, and when Jared had been embarrassed, gently explained: _sometimes my patrons like something to hold onto, dear one_. Jared ties the laces in the back with a careful knot, the bow sitting flat and centered under the spray of orchids rising up Richard’s spine toward the finial of his almost-finished marque.

The white shirt, next, and while Richard adjusts the laces at the throat to show off his smooth chest, Jared licks his lips, thinking. "Do you wonder about who your patron for the evening might be?" he says.

Richard finishes with the laces and smooths the shirt over his narrow hips, turning back and forth to admire the effect. "Of course," he says, abstracted. Jared kneels to help him into the tight breeches, and Richard easily uses his shoulder as a balance as he steps into them. "Without an appointed assignation, it’s always a surprise. But I am not of Gentian, trying to divine the future with—what, incense and dreaming and opium. Thanks to Elua."

Jared grins, can’t help it. Richard has very little use for the mystics’ house. He waits, kneeling, while Richard adjusts himself, tucking his soft bare cock into the breeches and lacing them easily, quickly. The ruffled hem of the shirt floats just over the bulge, showing it off to great effect, and then Richard slips on the doublet so that Jared can join it to the breeches on either side with the ribboned points, tying up the bows to sit enticingly on the top arch of each hip. "Just as well that Lady Joanna won’t be here this evening," Richard says, a rueful tilt to his smile as he watches Jared work. "She has an awful tendency to snap the ribbon as she’s unwrapping her prize."

Richard prefers the boots with the two-inch heel with this suit, and Jared helps slip them on and turns down the tops just enough to get a teasing glimpse of the white silk of the hose over the soft calfskin. When Jared stands again, Richard is closer to average height, and he’s also—stunning.

"Am I ready, dear?" Richard says, as always, eyes flicking over himself professionally in the mirror, checking their work.

"You’re beautiful," Jared responds, as he always does, and even if it’s their ritual it makes Richard smile at him in the mirror, warm and kind.

Distantly, Jared realizes that music is playing. The evening’s entertainment has started already, and guests must be arriving. He follows Richard a pace behind from the bedchamber down the lamplit rear servants’ corridor, then down the back stairs to the main floor of the house. Other adepts are gathering, too: Phoebe in a pink velvet gown that sets off her crown of blonde hair, Marcus in a navy blue silk, Antoine in his grey with the tiny embroidered birds that Jared loves so well—and Antoine tosses a kiss and a grin to Jared when he sees him looking. "Ready to smile for Gaultier?" Rose calls to Amelia, almost smirking, and Amelia shoves lightly at her shoulder and rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling, too.

Félicie swirls past, adjusting her pearl earrings as she briefly glances over each adept in turn, checking their presentation before they enter the great hall. She nods at Richard, smiling, and so he turns to Jared and smooths his hair behind his ears, presses a kiss to the top of his head. "Ask Naamah’s blessing for me, darling," he whispers, and Jared nods, flushing all over again. He backs away, going to stand in the shadows by the stairway, so that when the door to the hall opens and the light and sound flood through he can’t be seen. Félicie leads the way, and Jared can’t quite see the guests but he can hear the round of applause, a joyous call, rowdier and brighter than Balm ever was. When Rose’s skirt sweeps last through the doorway the footman behind the screen closes the door with a bow, and then—it’s quiet, again, but Jared can still hear the music.

It’s exciting, every time. He clutches a hand over his breast, where his heart is speeding a little below his tunic.

"Come _on_ , Jared," he hears. He turns—Laura. She’s at the door at the end of the hall, neat in her simple rose livery just as Jared is, but she has tugged her hair out of its caul so that it tumbles in messy dark waves over her shoulders. "Cook will have supper waiting, let’s go."

He sighs, but only quietly, and follows. She’s only two years older than him, but is close to her dedication, and is very fond of bossing him around with her little additional experience. It’s a good thing she ended up in Orchis, he thinks, less than charitably. Balm would have sold her out in a heartbeat.

They wend their way through the dim servants’ corridors to the kitchen, dodging a servant hurrying by with a fresh carafe of wine and clean glasses. "Did Phoebe have an assignation tonight?" he asks. Phoebe’s a particular favorite—only eighteen, but in great demand for her happy laugh and wide white smile.

"No, but we heard rumor that his grace the duke would be here with his entourage this evening." Laura pushes into the kitchen, where Cook is shouting at some of the undercooks about the turbot planned for the Dowayne’s private supper. They dodge out of the way of another rushing servant, and Laura steals a small slice of baguette from the baker’s tray laid by the fire. "If she’s lucky, she will call his attention again."

Jared whistles lowly under his breath. Phoebe is Laura’s mentor, and Laura brags often with secondhand pride about the patron-gifts Phoebe earns. The Duke de Trevalion left a particularly generous gift which earned Phoebe a full three inches of her marque, and Laura is always happy to mention it. Richard is more discreet with his own gifts, but Jared likes to think he wouldn’t brag about them, even if he did know.

The adepts ate hours ago, so they would not begin the evening with full stomachs, and the children eat well on their leftovers—a rich stew of morel and duck, thick and warming for the cold night ahead. Percy joins them after a while, cheeks flushed nearly the color of his darker livery. Already dedicated at fourteen, he is allowed to serve during the evenings while the house is open to guests, and as he sits and plows into his own meal he’s already full of gossip about the night’s business.

"A rich merchant has brought his son for his sixteenth birthday," he reports, expertly speaking around his full mouth. Not something that would be allowed near the adepts, and certainly not near a patron, but when it’s only them Percy can get away with it, rushing to get back to the fete. "And Trevalion _is_ here, yes, Laura, you needn’t ask again."

"Is the son pretty?" Jared asks, leaning in close.

Percy rocks his hand back and forth, chewing. "I wouldn’t be eager to have him pay my virgin-price," he says, finally. "But a very pretty mouth, I’ll give him that."

Jared sits back, disappointed. A sixteenth birthday usually means that rich parents will pay extra for their child to lose their virginity to someone special, and he knows Richard particularly favors those assignations, but—well, that is part of serving Naamah, too. Not all patrons can be as beautiful as Naamah’s servants.

"Marcus will take him, if no one else will," Laura says, practically, and Percy snorts while Jared tries to hide a smile. Marcus is sweet, but even Jared can tell that he’s a little dim, and as the youngest of the apprentices the less appealing contracts tend to be filtered toward him.

"I’m sure the Dowayne will secure an appropriate contract," Percy says, diplomatically, but he winks at Jared as he says it and Jared can’t help but let his smile spread, though it’s still small.

With his supper finished, Percy goes back to the main hall to continue attending. Jared has barely swallowed his last bite when a harried servant swipes his bowl away to be washed, and an undercook flutters her hands at them, getting them out of the way so that the valuable kitchen surface can be reclaimed. Laura smiles prettily at one of the teenaged scullery boys until he gives them two of the little late-harvest apples, and then kisses his cheek for his trouble. His face flushes dark red, and he says, "All right, off, bedtime." Jared smiles at him, too, and scurries off through the rear corridor after Laura.

The children’s rooms are much smaller in Orchis than in Balm. Percy and Laura share one little room and Jared shares the other with the youngest, Gemma, a cheery spoiled six-year-old born to the house. He comes in quietly, but she seems to be asleep. The room is barely lit by the small brazier at the foot of the bed, so he lights a taper to give a bit to see by as he undresses himself—hangs the livery over the dressing frame, places his soft boots by the door, and then in his shirt he nudges Gemma’s starfish-sprawl out of the middle of the bed and tucks himself into the warm blankets on his side. With the taper on the side-table, he slides his fingers down the side of the mattress, into where the sheet tucks against the bedframe and there—yes, he closes his eyes in relief. Still there. Gemma’s fast asleep and so he pulls out the last letter. Almost a month ago, now.

 _Daphne has me reading plays_ , he reads again, Jensen’s fine familiar hand scrolling smoothly over the creased paper. _They’re often bawdy, since they’re meant for the patrons’ entertainment, but I think you’d like some of them. The one I’m reading now features a young shepherd who falls in love with the stars, and while he’s dreaming they come down from the sky to return the favor. It’s a happy play, supposed to make the audience laugh. It made me think of you._

Jared touches the last word, where the ink smeared, and then closes his eyes. When he can bear it again he reads the rest of the letter, and then once more, no matter that he’s read it so many times he nearly has it memorized. Gemma stirs behind him, and flops over, her little breaths coming steady and even. Jared scrubs his wrist over his eyes and refolds the paper, tucks it back into its hiding place. Correspondence isn’t forbidden—the courier brought Jensen’s letter with all the rest of the adepts’ messages between houses, just the same as anyone else’s—and yet it’s… his. He keeps it safe. He blows out the taper, finally, and curls into the pillow alone, and listens to the music from the fete below. It will go on for hours, long after he’s asleep. He listens for a long time.

*

The days creep along, as they do, as the weather grows colder. Jared has been of Orchis for four months now, nearly five, and as the Longest Night approaches he is well familiar with the house’s rhythms. He hasn’t yet been dedicated, not like Percy, and so he and Laura and Gemma share the same responsibility: simply to live, and to learn. He and Laura play around the grounds during the daytime, with Gemma sometimes tagging after them. They race through the garden while the adepts are sleeping through the morning, and Laura’s older but Jared’s faster, almost always wins. Laura pouts, but she’s cheerful and soon forgets her mood. They’re all happy, here.

They’re in the small solarium, now, running through their daily exercise. Marcus is guiding them, in his way: he’s sprawled in his dressing gown on the chaise, and Jared thinks he might be making up some of the exercises. He’s never been asked to bend backwards to touch his heels, before. Still—

"I can’t believe you actually—! Marcus!" Percy says, and Marcus starts laughing, while Jared peeks at him upside down. He hasn’t quite reached his heels, but he’s arched backwards at any rate, his palms flat on the floor.

"I was only joking!" Marcus says, and then he hops up and grasps Jared’s ankles. "Ready?" he says, and Jared’s not sure for what, but then all of a sudden—his weight shifts and he’s aloft, balanced on his hands with Marcus holding him steady. They take a few staggering steps across the flagstone before the blood goes too much to Jared’s head and he gasps out _wait, stop_ , and then Marcus picks him up bodily in a show of easy strength, spinning him up into the air so that he’s panting down into Marcus’s grinning face.

"Are we training to be acrobats, now?" Percy asks, a little sarcastic.

"I want to try!" Laura says, never wanting to be left out, and so Marcus plants a smacking kiss on Jared’s cheek and drops him to the chaise cushion, gamely going over and swooping Laura up so that she shrieks and giggles. Jared slides down to the floor, breathing hard while the dizziness lets him go. Percy is stretching his thighs, shaking his head while Marcus fools about, but he’s smiling, too.

There’s an ache, somewhere in Jared’s chest. The house is warm, bright, even though snow is threatening outside and the day has gone a sullen grey, and his playmates are laughing, and tonight the house is closed to visitors and so he will get to take supper with Richard and hear stories about the week’s patrons, which he always loves, and yet. And yet.

Percy fostered from Eglantine, and though he didn’t have their creative spark and was always destined for Orchis, he was still raised by their singers, and he starts a simple bawdy song, clicking his fingers for the rhythm. Marcus spins Laura around again and starts to dance with her, an inelegant gavotte which involves tickling on the pass, and when he reaches out his hands for Jared, Jared gives them, of course, and lets himself be spun around. Laura embraces him and twirls him to Percy, who spins him in a full circle and pushes him to Marcus to be tickled—and he laughs, can’t help it in their infectious company, but there’s always something missing.

*

It’s a clear morning after the year’s first snow when Jared is called to Félicie’s office. He wears his livery, not sure how else to attend, and follows a yawning Rose up to the house’s top floor. The Second’s office is tucked away from the public areas—not like the Dowayne’s, open and elegant, where negotiations and meetings are held. When Félicie calls her welcome at Rose’s knock, Jared steps in and finds his Second wearing a simple deep brown gown, her bright hair caught in a loose caul at the nape of her neck. "Thank you, Rose, that will be all," Félicie says, and so the door closes behind Jared, and he’s left alone there, with a sudden nervous turn to his stomach for company. Or—no, not alone, because Gemma is there, too, curled up asleep in the plush reading chair under the window.

"Good day, Félicie," Jared says, bowing his head. He’s never seen Laura or Percy or any of the adepts do the same, but it was their manner at Balm and it’s only polite.

"Good morning, Jared," Félicie says, with a small smile. There’s a tea set there and she pours a cup for him, nods him to the upright little chair before her desk, and he takes both automatically. There are stacked papers all over the desk, books and scrolls and packages, and the settee crammed against the other wall is completely covered with fabric samples, swatches of bright silks and velvet and even gauzy, nearly transparent lace. He wants to touch it—even Richard only has a few pieces of lace in his wardrobe, and he saves it for private assignations. "We’re preparing for the Midwinter Masque," Félicie says, and he snaps his eyes back to her, flushes at being caught staring. She takes a sip of her tea, and he copies her, he hopes as gracefully. "Do you know what our theme will be, this year?"

He overheard Phoebe and Amelia gossiping over it in the garden while they took some sun, and licks his lips. "Myths, I think? From Alba?"

Félicie smiles wider, and it’s warmer than the fire at her back. "Yes, nearly. To honor Her Majesty’s ancestry, we’ll be playing as the fair folk, from the stories of Alba and Eire. Faerie, changelings, swan-maidens, selkies."

"I know those," Jared says, startled. "The seal ladies who are turned, and live on land with a human husband!"

It’s a story Jensen used to tell, from the book he took with him from Balm. Félicie raises her eyebrows, surprised, but she laughs softly. "Clever Jared," she murmurs, shaking her head, and then nods at the settee. There’s a luxurious pile of charcoal-colored velvet at the top of the stack, so thick it would be a treasure to touch. "Don’t you think Richard will make a lovely selkie?"

Jared blinks, imagines it. Richard’s black hair, his so-dark eyes; all that white skin a shock against the dark fabric, playing soft and feminine and coy. He nods, biting his tongue, and Félicie rests her chin on her palm, watches him for a moment.

"Jared," she says, finally, and he puts his teacup in its saucer with a slight rattle, because her voice is more serious than he’s ever heard it. "You know that when we pair a child with a mentor, the mentor reports to me and to the Dowayne, don’t you?"

He stares. Has he— "I’m sorry," he says. Félicie frowns, delicately, and Jared rushes on, says, "I’m sorry, I haven’t meant to—I didn’t mean to discredit the house," and he doesn’t know what he could have done, he’s been on his best behavior, he’s trying, but Félicie raises her hands, stops his rush of words.

"Darling, stop," she says, and looks—sad, maybe, which isn’t an expression he’s ever seen her wear. Not one he’s seen on anyone from Orchis, and he swallows, looks down at his lap where he’s cupping the tea and saucer between both hands.

"Richard was concerned, the other evening, when he woke you to go to your own bed," she continues, and now Jared squeezes his eyes closed. He knows the evening she means. In the brief quiet, a log cracks in the fireplace, and he breathes deep. "It’s not the first time you’ve wept, in your sleep."

He doesn’t know what to say. His stomach hurts, and he can feel his eyes growing damp, even now. _Joy in laughter_ , he remembers, from his birthday. He knows the canon; he knows what the house expects, what patrons will. All he’s wanted, his whole life, was to serve.

"Gemma, sweetheart," Félicie says, standing. Jared blinks hard, looks up. She takes the two steps over to the chair and pats Gemma’s little face, and gets a sleepy blink and outstretched arms, Gemma artlessly asking for love as she always does. Félicie does scoop her up, presses a kiss to her flushed cheek. "Time to go play, sweet."

"Want to stay with you, Mama," Gemma mumbles. Oh—Jared had never put that together, but it’s obvious now. Their matched red hair, the tilt of their mouths, though Gemma’s eyes are a cloudy blue instead of Félicie’s deep green. Félicie pats her back, kisses her brow, and then puts her on her own feet. Gemma rubs her eyes and stops at Jared’s chair on her way out the door. "I hope you feel better," she says, earnest, and kisses him on the cheek before she exits, and skips away down the hall.

Jared puts a hand over his cheek, over the little damp spot left. He still feels like he might cry. He’s not paying attention, and so he startles a little when cool fingers touch his chin, lift his face. Félicie searches his eyes, then taps her thumb where he’s biting his lower lip. "You’ll tear the skin," she reminds him, gently, and he lets it go immediately, face heating for forgetting his lessons.

She rubs her thumb over the dents he left, and then takes the cup and saucer out of his hand, sets it on her desk. "The seamstress finished something for you today," she says, unexpectedly. There’s a bundle of linen on the desk, balanced atop some parchment, and she unties the knot with a practiced flick. Out comes a weight of fabric—a cloak, Jared sees when she shakes it out, a heavy serge the color of a summer sky. He stands up at her gesture, and she settles it over his shoulders, the weight of it settling soft against him, like an embrace, the hem swirling all the way down to his ankles. "Ah, yes," she says, tugging at the collar. "Yes, that color’s just right."

"My lady," he says, through the thickness in his throat. If it’s a going-away present—if he’s to be sent—where? He doesn’t know.

"None of that, Jared," Félicie says. She puts her hands on his shoulders, squeezes lightly through the cloak. "You’ll accompany me today, but it’s near frozen outside. You’ll wear your boots, and the brown breeches, and—yes, borrow Percy’s smaller doublet, the cream. Hurry along, now. I’ll expect you in the front hall."

He’s ushered out of the door and it closes behind him. He still—he doesn’t know, but he clutches his new cloak around him, blinks away tears. If the worst comes, at least he’ll be warm. He trots down the stairs, back down to his own room, determined to do Félicie’s bidding. He’s met nothing but kindness, here, and he must repay that with obedience, if he can do nothing else.

*

He’s dressed and ready, standing nervously in the empty hall and watching the maids scrub the parquet in anticipation of the evening’s entertainment, when Félicie comes down the main stairs. She’s still in her plain gown, though she’s touched up her face with a light application of kohl, a red stain on her lips. She swings a russet cloak over her shoulders and nods to the footman, who sketches a shallow bow and opens the door for her. A coach is waiting, the same that first brought Jared to the house those months ago, and the footman hands Félicie in with a deeper bow, and then offers Jared his hand, too, helps him up out of the snowy courtyard into the plush interior.

Félicie offers no explanation, turning her attention to the satchel of papers she brought, and so Jared sits quiet, tucks his hair more neatly behind his ears and watches out the coach window. Mont Nuit isn’t busy, so early in the day—the only assignations that might happen before evening are special appointments, and those are rare enough. The trees have lost their leaves, for the most part, and the bare branches stretch elegantly over the boulevard, rimed with white and sparking in the sun. It’s only the second time he’s been outside of a house’s walls, and he leans further into the window, fascinated. There, a cart passing slowly by, laden heavy with boxes, driven by a boy so wrapped up in wool Jared can’t even see his shape, only his pink face as he curses at his donkey. A few men, trudging along in the cold, that glance up as the coach passes, and when one winks at him Jared blinks, and smiles cautiously back. He sees the man nudge his companion and point, maybe seeing the livery or the orchid sigil of the house, but by then they’ve passed and Jared can’t see them, anymore. They pass Dahlia, the smallish estate sitting well back from the street, elegant cypress lining the way to their gate dusted silvery with snow, and Jared wonders—would he have done better, there?

The coach slows, then, the footman calling out something that’s muffled through the roof, and Jared blinks, turning to look out of the other window, and—oh. The footmen on the ground call something in response, and the coach swings around, the horses’ shoes striking sharp on the cobblestone, and then they’re entering a new courtyard, through scrolled iron gates. Félicie tucks her papers back into her leather satchel, and Jared’s heart hammers in the base of his throat while the coach pulls around an elegant, empty fountain. The horses stop and a footman in a white doublet with a green cloak and breeches immediately comes forward to open the door of their coach, bowing low.

"Welcome, my lady, to Eglantine House," he says.

Jared snaps his eyes to Félicie, but she’s already stepping down from the coach, her hand set lightly on the footman’s arm. "Inform my lady Thibault that we have arrived, please," she says, while Jared is helped from the coach. The footman nods at a page, who scrambles away into the house, and the footman leads them at a more elegant pace toward the entry. The doors sweep open before Félicie’s path and warmth spills out into the cold day, and Jared gets his first view of Eglantine House.

The entry is separate from the main hall, unlike in Balm or Orchis, and at Félicie’s nod he takes the opportunity to knock away the little snow his boots accumulated. A maid bobs into view, murmurs that if they please she will guide them to the study to wait, and so they follow her down the corridors while Jared does his best to gawk around unnoticed. The house sprawls—that’s the first thing he notices. It seems to be three stories from the outside, much like his current home, but it spreads out wide, encompassing much more of the estate than either of the houses he knows. The corridor turns, several times, and he knows he’ll be lost if he tries to find his way out alone, but finally the maid brings them to a wide double-door and pushes through, then curtsies them inside. A fire is laid in the huge hearth, and Félicie gestures Jared to the cushion near it. He kneels _abeyante_ , but not before he takes in the walls, lined wholly with bookcases, full nearly to the ceiling on every side—and where there aren’t books there are paintings, as fine as any he’s seen. The one above the fireplace is of a couple entwined, a man’s broad back and the woman’s hands set elegantly upon it, her eyes meeting the viewer’s over his shoulder, serene with knowing satisfaction. Jared gazes at it, a little shocked, for a long moment—until the door opens, again, and he ducks his chin and hoods his eyes, forcing his form to be absolutely perfect. His long cloak is pooled about him like a puddle, hiding his body, but he’s sure Félicie can tell, anyway.

"My dear," he hears, and there’s the click of heels over hardwood. The voice is sugary, too ingratiating. "Such a cold day for such a pretty petal."

"Hush, Roxane," Félicie says. Jared risks a glance up—oh! Roxane Thibault, the Second of Eglantine.

He watches the women give each other the kiss of greeting, Félicie grinning and Roxane’s eyes crinkled with mischief. She’s likely a decade Félicie’s senior, but she’s still beautiful, dressed today in a gown of sage green that rises high against her throat. Jared drops his eyelids again, but he can see enough through his lashes to catch it when Roxane glances at him, kneeling, and then turns her eyes with a question back to Félicie. She doesn’t ask it, though—instead, calls for the maid again in her normal throaty voice, and orders tea and refreshment, and then the ladies both settle onto the settee before the fire, their long skirts brushing together with a whisper of silky fabric. Félicie tosses her cloak over the chair nearby, casual when they’re speaking one Second to another, and by the time the maid reappears with the tea tray and promptly disappears with a silent curtsy, the two of them are deep in gossip. Jared kneels, silent and still, and attends.

The fire is well-made, the kneeling cushion positioned just right so that Jared can appreciate the lick of warmth on his skin but not grow too hot, even in his cloak. He shifts his weight, imperceptibly, hands clasped neatly against his thighs, and watches the light flicker over the parquet, and traces the complex patterns in the fine Ephesian rug with his eyes, and listens. The Duke de Trevalion spent lavishly for his friends on his last visit to Orchis; Eglantine’s theme for the Masque this year is as yet a secret, even to friends, but a hint lies in the songs of Hellas that the adepts are now learning; a few of the female adepts are weighing whether to accept Eisheth’s blessing, and the two women speak with gravity but also practicality over the choice to bring new children into the houses. Jared’s eyelids grow heavy. He grew up in the Night Court and has long had the gift of _attending_ : to be silent, to let conversation wash over one’s unobtrusive presence, to rouse only when required. He’s lost in the rug’s pattern, his mind slow and registering the Seconds’ voices only as a distant music, when something Roxane says catches at his attention.

"So, you made a bad investment? And here I thought your criteria was so simple for little orchids."

Jared breathes in slow through his nose, out through his mouth. He lets his eyes part a little more, sneaks a look under his eyelashes. Neither woman is looking at him. Roxane has her head propped on her hand, leaning against the high upholstered back of the settee and watching Félicie, who is sitting more upright—less casual, now, and Jared thinks that they must have finally gotten to whatever business brought them here. His heart thumps slow and hard in the base of his throat.

"It is, and we did not," Félicie says—still with good humor, but a trifle exasperated. "And yet. There is a shadow, where one shouldn’t be. We aren’t Eglantine’s mysterious artists, with fickle moods, or Dahlia’s distant icy cliffs."

" _Joy in Laughter_ ," Roxane quotes, with a curve of smile.

"Our motto," Félicie acknowledges, and then after a second shakes her head. "I’ve always thought it was written backwards. Apologies to our ancestors."

Roxane hums, thoughtful. Her hair is only loosely bound back from her face, and she twirls a long coil of it around and around her finger. "How to create the joy, then?" she says, finally. "Is that the advice you’re asking?"

"No," Félicie says. She glances at Jared, at last, and he drops his eyes directly to the floor. Roxane laughs, softly, and he can feel the color rushing into his cheeks. He can do nothing right, lately. "Do you remember? Last year, when we met with Maxime."

"Well enough," Roxane says, and then— "Wait," with her beautiful voice gone suddenly sharp. "What do you suggest?"

"Nothing so shocking," Félicie says, a little pert. "Only that… flowers bloom better when they’re allowed some sun. And some need, perhaps, a specific sun."

Roxane huffs. "Poetry isn’t your forte."

"Cast your mind back," Félicie says, more urgently, and Jared tries, too. That meeting, with the Seconds—he was so caught up in the excitement and dread and joy of what was happening that he hardly remembers any details. He remembers the Seconds, judging them. Jensen pressed warm and nervous against his side.

There’s a long pause. Finally, Roxane says, "I remember. It’s why we allow the letters. But we have our own training, Félicie, and our own methods of molding apprentices."

"I wouldn’t presume to ask if I thought it would affect that, dearest," Félicie says, with her voice soft. "I ask because—even if the situation didn’t go against the canon, even if there weren’t a contract. All considerations of business aside. It would break your heart, to see it."

Jared closes his eyes fully, heat rising up behind them. That night, with Richard. He’d fallen asleep on the foot of the bed, while Richard bathed and undressed, and he doesn’t remember what he’d dreamed but Richard had looked stricken when he shook Jared awake, when he hugged Jared into his chest. He wishes no one had ever seen. All it’s caused is trouble, Richard’s smile dimmer when he looks at Jared, and now it has spread into another house.

There’s a rustle of skirts, and heels thudding over the carpet and then striking sharp against the wooden parquet. A murmured conversation that Jared can’t overhear, a pause. The heels come back, and there’s a sigh. "An experiment _only_ ," Roxane says, at last.

Félicie makes a soft sound, and when Jared peeks again she has thrown her arms around Roxane’s neck, lifted up on her toes to embrace her fully, and she only pulls back enough to cup Roxane’s face in both hands and kiss her mouth, generous and soft. "Thank you," she murmurs, looking up into Roxane’s eyes, and Jared looks down again, flushed for another reason.

There’s a silence for a moment, the fire crackling loud enough to hide any other soft sounds they might make. The door opens again, after a short while, and Roxane says, "Come," her voice lower and warmer. Another rustle, a maid arriving with a curtsy to murmur in Roxane’s ear. "Very well," Roxane says, dismissing the girl, and then: "If you’d care to accompany me?"

"Jared," Félicie says. He looks up, and Félicie is standing, while Roxane waits by the door. Félicie gestures and Jared rises smoothly to his feet, adjusting his shoulders under the cloak so it falls elegantly with his movement, and he’s rewarded by a small approving smile. Roxane is watching, eyes assessing, a little more distant than before. "Come along, sweet," Félicie murmurs, and so he moves ahead of her as she indicates.

Roxane’s gaze flicks over his head, communicating something unheard to Félicie behind him, but then she only shakes her head and turns and flings open the double doors herself, leading the way down the corridor. Jared follows, obediently. For the first time he sees that Roxane’s gown isn’t one of casual day dress, not like Félicie’s—a wide cut has been taken out of the bodice, a scoop so low it curves nearly to the base of her spine, so that her whole back is bared, framed by sage silk all around, and her long-completed marque is on full display. Is she seeing a patron today, Jared wonders, or doing business as the Second of Eglantine? He admires the lines of it, having not seen the design before—abstract green leaves radiating wide from the base of the spine, the scrollwork dotted with the little pale pink eglantine blossoms, narrowing as it rises up to the finial at the base of the neck, just under the gown’s high collar. Her olive skin holds the colors beautifully, the dress clearly designed to show off the marque to its full glory. Jared has a moment when he thinks, clear and sudden, that one day Jensen will have the same marque, that his golden-pale back will hold the same leaves and lines and colors, and then they turn through yet another corridor, on the east side of the house now so the morning sun streams clear and bright through the high windows, and Roxane goes through an archway to another gallery, this one full of bookcases just as the study was, but also full of light, and she takes a step to the side and silently gestures and Jared takes another few steps forward and there is Jensen, leaned over a wide mahogany table, reading with his head propped on his hand.

Jared—he can’t make a sound, for a second. Jensen’s wearing a dark green doublet, informally open at the front to show his shirt. His hair has grown long, tied back casually from his face with ribbon, and he’s frowning at whatever he’s reading, that little furrow between his brows that Jared knows so well, that Marina and Florent and Josephine all tried to train out of him so he wouldn’t wrinkle, but Jensen just—couldn’t help it, as long as he was absorbed in whatever he was reading. He must have sensed movement, somewhere deep under the book’s hold, because he looks up after a few seconds, and goes stiff and shocked all over, his hand dropping to the table.

"Jensen," Jared says, almost helpless. Jensen shoves up from his seat, and Jared grins at that expression, can’t help it, and then he forgets all decorum and races across the gallery and Jensen steps out from behind the table and Jared crashes into his chest, Jensen’s embrace wrapping tight around him and taking his breath.

"What—" Jensen says, muffled into Jared’s hair. "What—I can’t believe you’re—"

Jared laughs, crushed in against Jensen’s throat, and struggles just a little so that Jensen’s arms loosen enough so they can see each other. Jensen keeps him close, though, and Jared doesn’t want to move another inch.

"You’re taller," he says, accusing, though his grin is so wide it barely counts.

He is, too—fourteen, now, almost fifteen, stretched up in the time they didn’t see each other. Jensen sweeps Jared’s hair behind his ears, eyes moving all over his face. "You’re shorter," he replies, a few seconds too late, but Jared laughs again anyway and Jensen finally smiles, crooked and a little shy, but really happy looking, happy like Jared can barely remember him being ever, and he goes up on his tiptoes and flings his arms around Jensen’s neck, joy fizzing so hard in his belly it almost hurts.

"My lady," Jensen says, his hand wide between Jared’s shoulder blades, tucked under the cloak.

Jared sucks in a breath and tugs back, turning around to face the Seconds where they’re waiting in the entry, though he stays tucked in close against Jensen’s side. Roxane is watching them; Félicie is smiling, but she’s watching Roxane.

"I have business with my lady nó Orchis," Roxane says, after a moment. "I trust that you can entertain our guest for an hour or two, Jensen?"

"Yes, my lady," he says, bowing his head just as Jared does to Félicie, and Roxane nods and then touches Félicie’s arm, and they walk together out of the gallery, their heads bent together in discussion, and that means finally that Jared’s alone with Jensen. He looks up and finds that Jensen’s already watching him, too, and he smiles again, hugs Jensen around the waist and buries his face in the soft warmth of his shirt, shakes his head. He can hardly believe his luck.

Jensen returns his embrace, his nose buried again in Jared’s hair. Jared breathes him in. He smells of rosehips, of ink and paper. When he finally pulls back, Jensen lets him go only slowly, and Jared’s chest aches in the best way.

"What _are_ you doing here?" Jensen says, at last. He draws Jared down to the bench beside them, his eyes locked onto Jared’s face.

"Accompanying Félicie," Jared says, with a shrug. There may be something else, but he’s not sure, really, of her reasons. They hardly matter, right now. "I’m just so glad to _see_ you."

Jensen smiles, again. His eyes the same green-gold, set off beautifully by the doublet; same sprinkle of freckles over his nose. Jared drinks him in. "Letters aren’t the same," Jensen says, and tugs at the length of Jared’s hair where the tail of it lays over his shoulder. He pauses for a moment, fingers twirling the end of the tail around. "Are you well-treated?"

The tone is more serious, and Jared blinks. "Yes—yes, of course," he says. Jensen searches his face, and whatever he sees must leave him satisfied, because his shoulders relax and he settles, at least a little. Jared frowns, thinking. "What about you?" he says, uneasy. If Jensen is thinking—and he wouldn’t put it in a letter, because surely the couriers or someone might read it, and if he was hurt or unhappy—but Jensen is shaking his head, already, his hand finding Jared’s and squeezing.

"I’m all right," he says, and though it’s softer, Jared believes him.

He’s full of questions, then, and Jensen wants to know things, too. Jared’s notes back are always short, and he feels like he has so little to say, nothing to tell about his silly unfull days, not like Jensen. Jensen still won’t tell him anything about his lessons in the bedchamber, though. "That will come," is all he’ll say, and Jared pouts but Jensen doesn’t budge. He talks about his artistic training, instead, and that’s nearly as riveting as whatever secrets lie past the dedication.

The gallery they’re in is a quiet place, only the fire against the far wall providing much noise with the crackle and pop of the wood, and Jensen says it’s where he likes to study, early before the house truly rouses. Jared drinks in his stories, pressed in close so they’re nearly sharing the same air. Daphne is his mentor, instructing in both the art of the bedchamber and the art of the pen, and she’s exacting with both. "She crossed out nearly a whole poem, last week," Jensen says, wry.

"I’m sure it was wonderful," Jared says, loyally, but Jensen shakes his head, the corner of his mouth turning up.

"She was right, it wasn’t," he says, and shrugs. "That is how we get better, though. Trying, and failing, and trying again."

Another adept comes in, a while later, sleepy looking and wearing only her dressing gown with her hair a tumbled mess, and she doesn’t acknowledge either of them while she plucks a few books from the shelves and wanders out again. Jensen turns faintly pink when Jared asks about the informality, but only says that he had heard she took two patrons last night, and now planned to rest for this whole day.

Jensen’s telling Jared about the play he’s reading now, because Daphne wants him to study the dialogue—a fairy story, a girl wandering into a wood and meeting nymphs and dryads full of tricks—and Jared is fascinated, trying to imagine the costumes, the acting, how an audience might enjoy it, when he hears a click of fingers, and looks up to find that Félicie and Roxane have returned. He and Jensen both rise, immediately, bowing their heads in synchrony.

"Jensen, I have business with Daphne, so you’ll study today with Raphael," Roxane says. He’s silent, next to Jared, but nods. "Come, you may help me escort our guests."

The visit’s over, then. Jared licks his lips and his hand finds Jensen’s, lacing their fingers together and squeezing tight. Félicie tips a smile at him, but she turns and follows Roxane out of the gallery and so they must, too, trailing a few steps behind. Jensen’s grip is firm, and he matches his stride to Jared’s, their elbows jostling as they walk too close.

"Ready to tell me I was right?" Félicie says—quietly, but not so quiet Jared can’t hear it.

The women’s skirts rustle, their heels louder on the floor than Jared or Jensen’s soft boots. Over that small noise comes the faint huff of Roxane’s laugh. "There may be something to it. Though I cannot see what we get out of the bargain."

"The cost is little enough," Félicie says, linking her arm with Roxane’s. They walk on, passing from the brighter galleries into the corridors, and Jared’s a bit lost but he thinks they’re nearing the front entry. His heart pounds in his throat and he looks up at Jensen, who glances down at him and tries to smile.

In the foyer, a maid is waiting with Félicie’s russet cloak, and she presents it with a curtsy. Roxane takes it, settles it over Félicie’s shoulders. "I still say it may amount to nothing," she says, slowly tying the cord at Félicie’s throat.

"It may," Félicie says. Her eyes are crinkled with amusement as she looks up at Roxane. "You may also recall a pretty adept who told pretty stories about artists inspired by Erato and Thalia."

Roxane glances at the two of them, and then raises her eyebrows at Félicie in an amused arch. "Well, if _that_ is what I’m getting," she says, "then I have received the far better side of the bargain."

She leans down, then, and gives Félicie the kiss of parting. They linger over it, for a moment, and they’re beautiful together but Jared looks back to Jensen, squeezes both of his hands.

"Come along, Jared," Félicie says, then, and Jared takes a deep breath and embraces Jensen one last time. Jensen’s hand cups the back of his head, holds him tight for just a moment—and then lets go, takes a step back. Jared remembers his manners and bows to Roxane, but he knows it’s obvious that he’s looking back at Jensen as the doors open and the cold air sweeps in to embrace them both. Jensen wraps his arms around himself and gives Jared a small smile, and Jared tries to smile back—and then, the coach, and the footman has his hand out to help Jared in, and he climbs inside and settles onto the cushioned bench and by the time the door closes and he can peek out the window again—the door to Eglantine is closed, and the driver has clucked to the horses and they’re moving, again.

Heat rises behind his eyes and he blinks hard, looks down at his knees to hide it. It was a kindness, to let him see Jensen, a kindness that Félicie even remembered their friendship. It wouldn’t do to appear ungrateful.

"How was your friend?" Félicie says, after the carriage has cleared the gates and they’re moving along the boulevard again.

"He’s well," Jared gets out. He takes a deep breath and looks up, and meets Félicie’s gaze with a smile. "I’m very thankful that I was able to see him. Thank you, my lady."

"No need to be so formal, Jared," she says, waving her hand. She lowers it and pats the leather satchel beside her. "Do you know what I have in here?" He shakes his head, and she continues with a small smile curving her mouth. "An agreement, with my friend Roxane, and the approval of their Dowayne, my lord nó Eglantine. A cultural exchange, we’re calling it."

He frowns, confused. "I don’t—a trade of books, or plays?" They have enough at Eglantine, he supposes.

"Not precisely." She leans over the space between them and tucks his hair behind his ear, cups his cheek for a moment, meets his eyes with her dark green ones. They’re so lovely, though not as striking as Jensen’s. She smiles at him, a bit wider, and then leans back into the cushion on her own bench, hands folded loosely in her lap. "You’re a clever boy, darling. We haven’t had a child quite like you in Orchis for some time. Our training will serve you well, and you will be a great example of Orchis’s charm and joy and beauty. For you, though, we’ll add an additional piece of training—you’re to go to Eglantine, once per month, and learn a bit more of the arts."

He sits up straight, mouth parting.

"Playacting was my suggestion, but Roxane and her adepts will judge what’s best," she continues. Her eyes are dancing, though. "Perhaps your friend Jensen will have an idea of what to do, hm?"

He slips off the bench, goes to his knees in the footwell and grasps her hands. "Truly, my lady?" he manages, blinking hard and searching her face. "Am I—I’m to be allowed to go back?"

Félicie squeezes his hands. "Yes, darling," she says, and she’s still smiling, but it’s just a little smaller. She takes one hand back and touches his cheek, where his dimples must be showing. "I hope we see that smile more often, now."

His heart swells, in his breast, and it might be overstepping but he presses a kiss to the back of her smooth white hand. "Thank you," he says again, and again, and when she lifts his chin again, says, "I will be a credit to the house. I promise."

"I was never in doubt of that, Jared," she says. She nods at the other bench, and he drops back onto it. He feels like he’s fairly throbbing with shock, with joy. She smiles at him again, and then looks out the window to the snowy day outside. "Perhaps you’ll cheer your patrons with a recitation of comic Caerdicci verse."

"I will," he promises, immediately, and she softly laughs. He doesn’t know if such a thing even exists, but he’s sure he and Jensen can find it. He catches his breath, staring blindly out the window as well, watching the busier movement on the street now that the day’s a little warmer. He’s going back. He’ll see Jensen, often, and talk with him beyond the insufficient exchange of letters, and they can share details of their training and learn together, and they will neither of them be alone. He’s smiling foolishly, he knows it, and he covers his mouth with one hand, trying to temper it. He can’t, though. He doesn’t really want to.

*

Winter freezes the city almost to stillness, but the Court of Nightblooming Flowers never falls quiet. Patrons come and go and the nightly entertainment is as merry as ever—merrier, perhaps, to ward off the season’s chill. The house seems brighter, now, to Jared. Richard kissed both his cheeks when he revealed his good news and said, _there is our little sunbeam_ , and Jared flushed bright red but that only made Richard laugh. Laura frowned and thought it was odd, saying she’d never heard of such a thing, and why would an adept ever be of two houses?—but Percy scoffed, dismissing that out of hand. "I think it’s wonderful," he’d said, and tweaked Jared’s nose. "Maybe one day you’ll sing as well as I do."

The Longest Night comes, and goes. Richard is exquisite in his selkie costume, more beautiful even than Félicie had promised. Jared helps get him ready, his mouth dry as he makes sure the dark waves of Richard’s hair fall in an artfully wild mess, tumbled as though with a sea’s wind. Félicie is radiant as a faerie queen, with the Dowayne a regal faerie king at her side, the adepts a rowdy laughing bunch of colorful folktales behind them, and Jared is as proud seeing them off as he ever was with Balm’s gentle beauties. He stays up until midnight with Percy and Laura, though little Gemma falls asleep before the bells toll—and is awake, still, when half the adepts return, flushed and tipsy. Richard laughingly succumbs to Jared’s questioning and tells of the other houses’ themes: Balm came as garden animals, bees and dragonflies and bright hummingbirds; Jasmine as nobility from far Bhodistan, in cunningly draped sari silks and exotic jewels; Eglantine as the gods and goddesses of Hellas, Roxane radiant as tall Athene and their elderly Dowayne as a still-regal Zeus. Jensen hasn’t begun his service to Naamah and so wouldn’t be allowed to attend the Midwinter Masque, but Jared knows some little of Hellene mythology and thinks, when he at last goes to bed and lays there with his mind whirling in tiredness, that if he were to choose any costume for Jensen, it would be fair Apollo.

With the new year arrived, it is time for Jared’s first trip to Eglantine. In a turn of events, Richard helps him to get ready that morning—though there is hardly as much work to be done for a child’s visit as there is for an adept to prepare for a patron. Still, Jared is touched. "Tell me about your friend," Richard says, combing out his hair before the mirror in the bathing room, and so Jared does—nothing private, but he describes Jensen’s beautiful coloring, and his sweet thoughtful manner, and his brilliance, and his skill at writing.

"Perhaps he will write you a poem, dear," Richard says. He has tied Jared’s hair into a simple queue at the nape of his neck, held with his pink ribbon, and is resting his hands on Jared’s shoulders. "Since you have already composed sonnets for him."

Jared flushes, ducking his head, and Richard squeezes his shoulders with a laugh. "Don’t be shy," he says, and reaches forward to hold Jared’s chin, making Jared meet his eyes in the mirror. "Elua said _love as thou wilt_ , dear one. It is the only thing that matters, in all the world."

Jared nods and Richard pats his cheek, smiling, and then sends him to finish dressing. He has no instructions, though Félicie did underline that he was a guest in Eglantine House and so should behave accordingly. He wears his soft pink livery, breeches and the knee-high boots, and when he’s wrapped up in his cloak again he goes downstairs and finds one of the footmen waiting for him at the base of the rear stairs.

"Ready?" the man says, and Jared nods, already almost breathless with excitement.

It’s still so cold, a fresh layer of snow over the ground, and so they take a carriage—not the one owned by the house, with its official livery, but a rented one that the house hires sometimes to take the patrons home when they’ve had too much drink. The footman nods familiarly to the driver and hands Jared into the interior, and then takes his own seat, silent. It’s a quick ride down the boulevard, and the footman doesn’t speak to Jared, but Jared hardly has the mind to be offended, or even curious.

Soon enough, the gates to Eglantine swing open at the carriage-driver’s call, and they pull into the courtyard, and a footman from Eglantine opens the carriage door with a bow, and then a startled look and a grin when he sees that it’s only a counterpart and a child. "Delivering a parcel, Thierry?" Eglantine’s footman says.

"A guest," the footman—Thierry—says, and rolls his eyes a little. Jared holds back, shy, but Thierry does descend from the carriage and bow him out of it, as solicitous as he would be with an adept, and so Jared takes his rougher hand and steps down into the snow, flanked by both servants. Thierry puts a hand on his back, briefly, and nods to his friend. "Announce to the house that Jared nó Orchis has arrived, guest of my lady Thibault."

The footman from Orchis huffs, but leads them inside, and gestures for Jared to sit on the wide stiff sofa in the foyer. Thierry stands to the side, hands at rest neatly behind his back, while the other footman disappears into the house.

Jared sits upright, ankles crossed and his hands folded in his lap as though he were waiting _abeyante_. He’s not used to being a guest. The foyer is so different from Orchis’s, or Balm’s. There are wide double-doors directly across from the entry, which Jared assumes leads to a hall for fetes, but it’s odd that it’s closed away instead of open to guests—and doors lead away, to the east and west sides of the estate, closed corridors that separate the various areas of the house. The parquet is polished to a high sheen, though, and art lines the walls—perhaps painted by adepts of years gone by, Jared thinks. He’s studying a portrait of an older woman whose eyes meet the viewer’s with a secretive humor when the eastern door opens, and a beautiful adept is there, dressed in a grey gown so simple it could be a shift, if Jared couldn’t tell that it was silk.

"Jared nó Orchis," she says. Jared immediately finds his feet and sweeps her a bow, careful to ensure his posture is perfect. When he rises again she is watching with slightly narrowed eyes. She flicks them up to Thierry and says, "You may wait in the kitchen," and before he has even completed his own bow she gestures to Jared and turns, disappearing into the corridor, and so Jared scrambles to follow.

They walk roughly the same path that Jared remembers from following Roxane, just over a month ago. This adept is tall, nearly as tall as Roxane, with ash-blonde hair braided into a crown around her head and fair, fair skin—not a creamy white as Richard’s is, but almost translucent, as though she could have been born from frail Cereus House. They pass doorway after mysterious doorway, through corridors lined with more paintings, and plinths holding busts and elegant sculpture, and it’s early enough in the day that they don’t see another adept before they turn into the bright hall on the farthest-east side of the house, and then into the gallery where Jensen is waiting.

Jared feels his face break into a smile, just upon seeing him. Jensen’s waiting, this time, sitting on a bench facing the door, and he rises immediately when they enter. He’s dressed casually, again, in a green jersey coat and simple breeches, and Jared feels overdressed compared to them both. He’ll have to ask Jensen what’s best, later. A fire is laid, crackling brightly in the hearth, and the room is open and empty but for the three of them. Jensen smiles at Jared, though it’s only little.

"Well, she was right about that," the adept says, cryptic, and Jared looks up to find her standing with her arms folded, just off to the side. She looks down at him, after a second, and her eyes are a light amber, direct and focused. "Introductions are in order, I suppose. My name is Daphne Descoteaux nó Eglantine, adept of Eglantine for eight years, and Jensen is my pupil."

Jared bows, again, and murmurs his greeting. She’s unlike any adept he’s met—her words and manner are sharp, clear and direct. He wonders if this is what she’s like with a patron.

"I’m given to understand that you’ll be studying with us," she says.

"Yes, my lady," he says, bowing his head politely.

"Sweet manners," she says, but it’s not to him any longer. "Your little friend from Balm, yes?"

Jensen nods, sitting back down on the bench. "Jared’s very clever," he says. His voice isn’t quite as soft as Jared’s used to—gained from her, perhaps. It makes Jared blush with pleasure, anyway.

Daphne raises her eyebrows, and looks Jared up and down. He expects something cutting, from her expression, but she only says, "A good thing that Orchis has the sense to encourage it, then," and with a nod she directs Jared to the table, where he sits beside Jensen on the bench. "We only have you one day each month, so I don’t expect that you’ll be the next Edouard Rinforte, but we can develop a talent in you. Jensen, fetch your work from yesterday."

Jensen rises immediately and finds a volume unerring in one of the gallery’s dozen bookcases. Daphne sits in an armchair by the fire and rings a bell, and under the bustle of a maidservant coming in and Daphne ordering tea, Jared leans in close to Jensen’s ear. "Who is Edouard Rinforte?" he whispers.

Jensen smiles at him, opening the book to its marked place. "The most famous actor of the century," he whispers back, and he wraps an arm around Jared’s shoulders, hugging him close at last. Jared relaxes into his side, taking in his familiar scent, though it’s tinged again with rosehips.

"Jensen, take the part of Benjamin," Daphne says, having sent the maid on her way. "Jared can play Mierette."

Jensen shows Jared the names, marked clearly on the page, and the lines he’s meant to read. "The play is about a young girl who falls in love with an older man, but he doesn’t return her love," Jensen explains. "She tries to earn his affection, but he thinks of her only as a child, and in the end he marries another and she takes her own life."

Jared startles, looking up at the side of Jensen’s face. "But—that’s so sad!" he says, and Jensen is surprised in his turn. "Don’t the patrons mourn?"

"Not all art is for patrons," Daphne says, and when Jared twists around she’s watching them, her chin rested delicately on her fine-boned fist. "And not all patrons want a bawdy love-tale, or a lark."

Jared feels himself frowning, but he turns back to the book. "It’s all right," Jensen says, softly, and tugs him close again so that they’re both leaning over the page. He speaks quietly into Jared’s ear, like they’re the only two people in the room. It reminds Jared of being tucked close in their old shared bed. "This scene is one where Benjamin reads a letter from his beloved, and asks the maid Mierette for her advice in wooing the other lady."

Already reading ahead, Jared sees the lines he’s meant to say. _You could speak of her beauty, my lord,_ Mierette says, and Jared can only imagine how sad she could be. "How should I—what am I meant to do?"

Jensen glances up, over Jared’s head. Daphne doesn’t offer instruction, and so Jensen says, after a moment, "Just think about her, about the feelings she might have, wanting to speak honestly to her love but unable to."

He takes a deep breath, already nervous. Jensen finds his hand and holds it, and Jared looks up and finds his eyes, crinkled a little at the corners with a small smile. "It’s only me," Jensen says, quiet. "Just us, reading together. All right?"

Jared squeezes his hand, and laces their fingers together, and nods. "All right," he says, and looks down at the pages, Jensen tucked warm and solid against his side. "Ready."

*

Training becomes Jared’s life. He hadn’t thought of it that way in his first months of easy living in Orchis’s casual embrace. He only assisted Richard, after all, and learned, and lived. It seemed simple. With his additional perspective from Eglantine House, though, he sees more of how the puzzle of the Night Court fits together. Every day, he walks among his peers and the beautiful, laughing adepts of his home. He breathes their air; he lives as they live. He exercises daily with the other children and apprentices, and plays, and basks in the easy joy of life—and, he now sees, his wants are affirmed and retrained, every moment, to the manner in which Orchis House serves Naamah. Richard tweaks his nose and makes him smile, and Jared makes a fine jest and even Laura has to laugh, and that is joy. Merriment suffuses the house from the hall, every night, and he can’t wait to be part of it.

It is the stark contrast with Eglantine each month that makes it clear, though Jared comes to love it there, too. Of course he does; Jensen is there. He doesn’t know if he would have flourished there, if he could have been one of their adepts, but to get a glimpse inside is wonderful. He meets some few other adepts, and they are nothing like those of Orchis, or Balm. Young Denis, dark-skinned and slight, trained as an actor, with a rollicking jesting way about him that makes even Jensen laugh, and he could have fit at Orchis—but when he comes in to read lines with them he can turn his big dark eyes to any emotion, and his version of Mierette makes tears roll down Jared’s face. Lilia, the spry acrobat near Jared’s own age, who goes about in boys’ breeches and is full of sneaky mischief and is, more horribly, prone to leaping out when Jared least expects and scaring him half to death. A trio of female singers, all sopranos, but each with moods that turn with the breeze, and Jensen whispered to Jared that Estelle actually slapped a patron after a performance—and still made a contract with him, that night, and gained a full inch of her marque.

Jared comes, every month, and he will never fit fully with Eglantine but he grows comfortable there—not quite a guest of the house, anymore, but perhaps a cousin. Jensen has begun constructing his own short plays and so Jared helps read through the lines, and while so doing tries to learn about playing some other person under Daphne’s strict supervision, and always she asks—why? Why say the line this way? Why does he make this assumption, or that? What is he thinking? She’s not cruel. Jensen worried—asked, quietly when Daphne stepped out of the room, _is it too much? Is she scaring you?_

"No," Jared said, and meant it. "I just… she’s nothing like Richard. That’s all."

Only—that’s not quite true. Richard, too, questions constantly. Why that scent? Why the softer rouge, tonight? It’s almost like a game of riddles, with one goal: to guide him into serving Naamah in the best way that _he_ can, not simply to be a molded copy of every other adept. The months go on and he tells Jensen stories of his friends, and meets Jensen’s companions in Orchis, and more and more he sees the subtle variations that make each member of the Night Court a different kind of beauty. Marcus might be dim, but he’s truly merry—perhaps a bit thoughtless, but his laugh comes easy, and he’s a muscular beauty, built like one of the Hellenic statues in Eglantine’s corridors. Phoebe is sweeter, a bit more flattering, and her jokes come slyly to surprise the patrons with her wit. Richard is kind, not prone to giggling but always full of a deep warm happiness. Rose is bawdy; Percy’s sarcastic. In the house’s shrine, the priestess Noemie teaches them all that Naamah bestowed herself on men and women alike in thirteen variations—and more, because the gift of love is infinite, unending. Noemie touched Jared’s cheek, just where his dimple would be, and said, in her sweet voice, "And why will you lie with your patrons?" Jared breathed in, kneeling in the pool of sunlight with the other children, and said, "To bring joy," and Noemie smiled at him for it.

In early summer, Percy turns sixteen, and his debut is a wild rollicking fete which Jared so very much wishes he could attend. Laura does, since she’s been dedicated, and she tells Jared that the auction for Percy’s virgin-price was merry, the patrons jesting at each other over their wine and Percy egging them on. The winner is a comte’s daughter, with a fine price of three thousand ducats after Percy leaned over and whispered something in her ear that made her squeal with laughter. Percy moves into adept’s quarters, after that. That autumn Eveline comes to Orchis to replace him in the nursery, black-haired and black-eyed with a high trilling giggle like birdsong. Eveline tells Jared, after she has been welcomed into the house in ceremony, that her father is the High Priest of Naamah at the Great Temple in Namarre, and she begged to be sent to train in the Night Court when she was of age. It took the Dowayne and Félicie only minutes to determine that she would be a perfect fit, and they immediately made an offering to the Temple in exchange for her term of indenture. Rose falls pregnant the next month and immediately stops serving patrons; gossip among the adepts says that the patron who got the babe on her was likely that minor baron who spent lavishly and whose coloring would look well with Rose’s own, and hopes are high that the new child will be a good fit with the house.

The week before the Longest Night, Richard surprises Jared by taking a day away. When he returns, he calls Jared up to his room and, flushed with delight, he shows off his completed marque—a few generous patron-gifts saved up earned him the last inch, and he went right away to the marquist to have the inking finished. "It’s so beautiful," Jared says, and he’s being honest. Though each house’s marque has a set design, each adept is allowed minor variations, and Richard’s is gorgeous on his creamy skin: the twined stems rise through the scrollwork in subtle blacks and greys, the finishing touch the blush of deep red in the center of each orchid.

There is a small ceremony, the next night, which Jared is allowed to attend. In the Dowayne’s office, made warm by the fire, he kneels _abeyante_ to one side and watches dry-mouthed while Richard enters in his dressing gown, his bare white feet barely making a sound on the thick carpet. The Dowayne sits at ease upon his wide throne, with Félicie standing at his side. Richard doesn’t bow, or kneel, but lifts his chin and says, quietly, "My lord, my marque is made."

The Dowayne rests his hands on the throne’s arms, leaning back. "Step forward, and disrobe."

Richard takes one step, so that he’s just before the low dais on which the throne sits, and unties his dressing gown with a single twist. An elegant shrug lets it flow from his shoulders and it falls into a puddle about his feet, leaving him completely naked in the warm air. He turns, gathering his hair over one shoulder, and bows his head so that his back is exposed to the Dowayne’s eyes. Jared can’t see it, from this angle, but he can see Félicie’s smile widen, and the Dowayne’s expression go soft. The Dowayne stands, and spreads his hands over Richard’s shoulders, sliding them down the expanse of his back with a whisper of skin-on-skin to bracket his bare hips.

"Beautiful work," he murmurs, and the corners of Richard’s mouth turn up. The Dowayne takes his hands off and steps back, sitting again on the throne. In a louder voice, he says, "Your marque is made." Richard turns around again, lifting his head, and the Dowayne nods, acknowledging him. "Richard Toluard nó Orchis, your term of indenture is complete. You are free to serve Naamah or not, however you choose."

"Martin Plaisance," Richard says, slowly, and Jared blinks. He hasn’t heard anyone use the Dowayne’s full name to his face in the entire time he has lived in this house. Richard steps up onto the dais and smoothly kneels, just before the Dowayne’s feet, his marque fully on display to Jared. He looks up into the Dowayne’s face, for a moment, and then says, "If it please you, I will stay. Orchis is my home."

The Dowayne smiles, the fine lines by his eyes crinkling, and takes Richard’s face in his hands. "Nothing would please me more," he says, and then kisses Richard’s mouth, soft and full.

Félicie claps, laughing delightedly, and when the Dowayne releases Richard she comes in and draws him to his feet, kissing him in her turn and then embracing him about the shoulders. The Dowayne rises, too, and claps his hands. "Wine," he calls, and then stoops and picks up Richard’s dressing gown himself, helping Richard to shrug it onto his shoulders. The Chancellor of the house has been waiting quietly, in a seat near to where Jared kneels, and at the Dowayne’s gesture he rises, bringing forward a rolled contract on slightly-yellowed vellum, tied with a blush-colored ribbon. This is rolled out on the desk on the far side of the room, and Richard signs something at the bottom, and then the Chancellor and the Dowayne bend their heads together, murmuring over something. That leaves Richard free to come to Jared and draw him to his feet and squeeze him tight in an embrace, so tight that even slight Richard manages to pick Jared up off the floor with the strength of it. Jared laughs, too, and when Richard sets him on his feet again he’s kissed all over his face, a flurry of joy that makes his heart fill.

"You’ll keep assisting me, won’t you, dear one?" Richard says, holding Jared’s shoulders and smiling down into his eyes.

He’s so beautiful. Jared laughs, almost incredulous. "I wouldn’t give it up, ever," he promises, and Richard kisses him again, on the forehead, and then a soft brush of lips over his mouth that makes Jared’s heart leap in his chest—and then a maid arrives, with a tray of wine, and Jared is dismissed for the evening while the adults celebrate.

At Eglantine, on another frozen day a few weeks after the Longest Night, Jensen frowns when Jared tells him the story. They’re in a different library this time, a cozy, almost fusty little room on the house’s second floor, working through some of the poets’ tales of Alba in Cruithne that Daphne has set Jensen to. Jared’s already better with the verb conjugation, which makes Jensen roll his eyes, but Daphne says that Jensen has the better accent.

Jensen splays his hand over the page he was reading, to hold his place. "But—he finished, didn’t he? He earned his marque, so he's paid back the cost of his training."

"Yes," Jared says, drawing it out a little. He draws his stockinged feet up onto the cushion of their shared settee, wrapping his arms around his knees. "Richard has some patrons who would follow him, I’m sure. But his home is Orchis, and the Dowayne was glad that he chose to stay. He might go and set up his own salon, later."

He gets a low _hmm_ , for that, Jensen looking down at the open book and tapping his fingers restlessly against the page. Jared is about to tell him of the new suit Richard commissioned, which will finally allow him to publicly show his marque—it will be linen, dyed a beautiful deep lilac, to be worn in the hot summer—when the door to the library opens and a patron wanders in, glances at them, and begins perusing the shelves.

This is the thing that sets Eglantine so far apart from what Jared’s used to, though he’s more accustomed to it now. Jensen doesn’t move, doesn’t acknowledge the man with even a flicker of an eyelash, but instead begins reading the poem aloud again in his smooth voice, while Jared follows his finger as it runs over the page. He understands it well enough, since they’ve gone over it almost half a dozen times now— _the black boar runs, and the swan takes silvered flight_ —and so he’s free to glance through his eyelashes at the patron. He isn’t really searching for a text, or at least not seriously. His hand rests on a thick leather-bound tome, but he’s just leaning against the shelf now, and he’s watching them, running his thumb restlessly over and over his lower lip. Jensen pushes their book a little closer to Jared, and he takes over the reading, letting his eyes flick up subtly enough that he can gauge the man’s dress—lace at sleeves and collar, fine velvet, minimal jewelry, no cosmetics. If he’s nobility, he’s understated about it, but the wealth is obvious, as is his taste.

Jared’s halfway through the passage when the man clears his throat. He looks up and the man hasn’t stepped closer, but he’s watching them intently. "Your pronunciation is off, young man," he says, in a surprisingly deep voice. "That word, the _o_ sound is meant to be softer, held in the mouth. As in ‘love.’"

It’s not said cuttingly; just an offer of instruction. Jared says the word again, slowly, and the man nods with a small smile. "Very good." He’s perhaps older than Jared had estimated, a few fine lines resting at the corners of his eyes, a strand or two of grey in his unbound dark hair. He looks Jared up and down, and Jared knows that patrons are allowed throughout the house unaccompanied in Eglantine, but it’s still—strange, to find himself the focus of one, and he can already feel himself flushing. The man’s smile widens, just a touch. "I don’t think I’ve seen you before, cherub. What do they call you?"

"He is not of Eglantine House."

Jared blinks. Jensen has gone stiff at his side, shoulders square, and his voice was as quiet as it always is but there was steel beneath it. Jared licks his lips and doesn’t say a thing, and the patron’s attention is caught completely.

He tilts his head, considers Jensen, his eyes narrowed for a moment before his expression eases. "Ah, yes. Jensen, isn’t that right? Daphne’s pupil." Jensen nods, but doesn’t respond otherwise. The man nods down at the book between them. "An excellent collection you’re reading. We’re fortunate that the Straits opened and Alba and Eire can share their wealth with us. Perhaps you’ll write an epic to rival the _Elegy of the Cullach Gorrym_ , someday."

"Perhaps," Jensen says. A few seconds too late, he adds, "My lord."

The man regards him steadily for a moment, then glances at Jared, and the corner of his mouth quirks up. "Good luck in your studies, boys," he says, and takes the volume he’d been handling off the shelf. He bows very briefly, his eyes amused, and wanders out, as easily as he came in. Only once the door closes does the tension seep out of Jensen’s body, and Jared takes the opportunity to elbow his side.

"Why did you talk to him like _that_?" he demands, while Jensen claps a hand to his ribs and mimes at pain. "He could have been a patron of yours, soon!"

"He likely will be," Jensen says, shaking his head. He abandons the book to the nearby table and leans his elbows on his knees. "That was Faolan Garneau, a great patron and lover of the theater. He supports Daphne’s plays—pays almost as much toward them as he does toward her purse—and I know she’s told him about me."

Jared frowns. There’s still much he hasn’t been told about how to attract patrons, and of course Orchis’s instruction about etiquette are different from Eglantine’s, much as they are different from Balm’s—but he hadn’t thought they were _that_ different. Jensen glances over at him, and smiles a little at whatever’s on his face. "Don’t worry about me, Jared," he says, and tweaks the end of Jared’s plait where it lays against his shoulder. "When the time comes, I’ll know how to serve my patrons."

It has begun to snow again, outside the high windows, and Jared leans back into the corner of the settee, pushing his toes under Jensen’s thigh to warm them. Jensen pats his shin, absently, but he’s clearly thinking of something else, and that gives Jared a moment to watch him. The nearly-straight line of his nose, the blush-colored plump of his mouth. His hair has been trimmed, since the last time Jared visited, but it’s still long enough to be swept back into a neat queue at the base of his neck—the light brown set off by a blue ribbon, this time, to match the dark blue coat he’s wearing open, as casual as ever. Percy told him a long time ago that new adepts at Eglantine may design their own clothing, for their debuts—and just thinking it, a little jolt hits Jared’s belly. "When the time comes," he echoes, and Jensen looks over at him, frowning. "Your birthday is only two months away!"

"Oh—right," Jensen says.

"Right!" Jared sits up, tucks his knees under himself. "You’ll be sixteen! Will there be a fete? What has Daphne said, or Roxane? Have you decided on your outfit?"

Jensen waves his hands, stemming the flood of questions. "Jared," he says, with a brief laugh, though—he’s not smiling, really. He runs a hand over his head, tucks a stray bit of hair behind his ear. "I won’t have my debut on my birthday." He forestalls Jared’s outrage with a look, and swivels so that he can draw his own feet up onto the settee, his longer legs prodding into Jared’s space. "The Dowayne and Roxane have already declared it, and Daphne agrees that it’s best, since I started so late."

He seems to be at ease, but Jared’s been watching body language since he was born and he knows Jensen’s best of all, and he watches Jensen pluck at a loose thread in the settee’s upholstery, restless. He bites his bottom lip, and sets both hands on Jensen’s knees. "So," he says, more calmly. He remembers his lessons from Balm well enough, still. He slides his hands over, and around, massaging Jensen’s calves with a light touch through his fine wool stockings. "When _will_ you debut?"

Jensen props his head on his hand, elbow resting against the settee’s back. "At the end of summer," he says. His eyes are on Jared’s hands, or perhaps are looking through them. "Just after your birthday. There will be a fete, timed to coincide with the anniversary of the Battle of Three Princes. Part of a war, a long time ago," he explains, at Jared’s confusion. The corner of his mouth turns up. "When Terre d’Ange defeated the Skaldi, the first time, before Selig’s War. I don’t know if the Skaldic reference is meant to be a jest, or not." He shakes his head, dismissing that. "There will be a performance, a short romance about one of the princes and his lover, and then at the fete afterward the auction will be held. Daphne has already started to put about that we’re writing the play together, so there will be some interest."

Jared thinks about that man Garneau, the way he watched them both—and how many other patrons, he realizes, must wander through and watch the young artists of Eglantine grow. A more intimate way than Orchis’s, where some have their favorites but patrons and adepts pair together for a lark; the gentlemen and ladies who know their way around the sprawled twisting corridors of Eglantine know, too, which apprentices to follow, which talents to foster. Faolan Garneau loves theater, and knows poetry, and Jared feels his face heat when he imagines— _him_ , sitting idle and watching Jensen write with ink staining his fingers, just as Jared has, and yet he could beckon Jensen over and ask for poetry directly from his lips, and Jensen would lean in and settle into Garneau’s lap and whisper pretty words into his mouth, if he asked.

"All right?" Jensen asks.

Jared looks up, startled. He’s pressing his hand to his hot cheek, he realizes, and he shakes his head. "Just thinking," he says, and Jensen raises his fine brows. Jared smiles. "So, what will you wear? You must have thought of it."

He makes his voice cheery and Jensen rolls his eyes. "Daphne and Roxane can’t decide between pine-green velvet or a sapphire silk," he says. He stretches his legs out so they bracket Jared where he’s kneeling on the cushion, and smiles a little, though it’s rueful. "I just asked not to wear a stock or cravat, and they agreed. If they hold swatches of fabric up to my cheek one more time, though, I’ll go to the Dowayne and beg his mercy to wear a shirt and nothing else."

Jared laughs, imagining. "It might do well for your virgin-price," he says, and Jensen rolls his eyes again, but his smile seems more honest, and Jared counts that as a job well done.

*

There are lessons on comportment, on poise, on when to drive the jest higher and when to let it gracefully evaporate. Jared and Eveline sit in on the rapid-fire conversation between the adepts at their luncheon, laughing along to the high humor and merriment but also watching, learning. Eveline has been paired with Audette, a fairly experienced adept of twenty who lets fly with sharp barbs belowstairs and giggles sweetly with patrons in the hall. Percy drops a kiss on Eveline’s forehead and whispers, _not all laughter is extracted by flechette, sweetheart_ , with a wink to Jared, and Jared hopes she takes it to heart. They and Laura work through the newest edition of the Peerage and during exercises they make a game of testing each other, naming marriages and cousins and mistresses and sons.

Eveline sings like a lark; Jared is shy with his singing, always aware it’s not as good as the others’, but he’s improving on the lyre and harp all the time. Jensen tells him about the new instrument Eglantine has acquired, a harpsichord, and he thinks that they’ll let Jared play it, too, since he’s nearly one of their own by now. Their Cruithne lessons continue, and now Jared is learning Caerdicci too. Antoine’s grandmother hailed from Millazza and it was the tongue of his childhood home, and he helps Jared practice conversation: flirting little jests about flowers, the fertile rush of springtime, greetings and goodbyes and love-talk. Jared learns how to pay extravagant compliments and how to curse like a carriage-driver—though Richard, even if he laughs, cautions to be careful where he uses that particular skill.

Jensen and Daphne are hard at work on the new play; with her own name attached, Daphne is more exacting than ever. Jared receives a letter, just after Jensen’s sixteenth birthday: _there was wine, with Daphne and Denis, but with no fete it was right back to work, and my hand aches from constant rewrites_. On a visit, Jared is allowed to read some of the completed pages, and it really is charming—sweet, like many of the plays meant for patrons, but there is a deeper thread running through, since all Terre d’Ange knows the tragedy of Prince Rolande de la Courcel. The prince will be played by Auguste, a tall adept with beautiful eyes who kisses Jared full on the mouth in greeting, making him flush down to his collar; Denis will play Anafiel, the prince’s young lover, and during a brief practice while Jared’s in the house he gives a demonstration of his tender love, caressing Jensen’s face and speaking soft and gentle. _My liege-lord_ , Denis whispers, and Jared’s chest goes tight even as Jensen blinks. _My swan. I would that I could shelter beneath your great wings and live all the days of my life without the sun. What need have I of light that is not reflected from your eyes?_

"Perhaps too much," Daphne says, chin resting on her fist.

Denis flops back onto the settee, the emotion draining away like it was never there. Jared’s throat is tight and tears threaten the back of his eyes, and Jensen looks to him and considers. "It is a romance," he says, finally. He turns to Daphne and shrugs. "The greatest love of the age. Gilding it further for patrons can hardly hurt."

Daphne lets her hand drop to the table, and taps her polished nails against the wood. She glances at Jared, too, and he dashes the back of his hand across his eyes, embarrassed. Denis performed the line very well. "Perhaps," she says, finally, and Jensen flashes Jared a secret smile, turning to a new page. It will stay in, then. The patrons will weep, Jensen thinks, and Jared can’t see how it could be otherwise.

July arrives, at last, and Jared turns twelve with little ceremony. Jensen’s debut is set for a scant three weeks later and Jared can hardly contain his excitement. It’s just a few days after his birthday that he’s allowed to again come down the hill to Eglantine, and when he arrives he’s sent to a new room, one he hasn’t seen yet in his explorations of the house.

It’s a riot of color, bolts of cloth scattered over every surface and producing a rainbow of silks, velvets, serge and linen. Jared blinks and then has to bite his tongue on a smile. Jensen is stood up on a little platform in front of a huge mirror, dressed only in a shirt with his long pale legs bare under it, and his arms are crossed over his chest with the most mulish expression on his face.

"No stock," he says, to the petite lady in front of him. "They’re torture devices."

"It would be _gorgeous_ with your skin tone, you absolute fool," she says, fists propped on her hips.

Jensen finally notices Jared behind him, in the mirror, and spins around. "It was my only request!" he says, not even bothering with a greeting. Jared nods dutifully, but he’s doing a bad job of hiding his smile and Jensen rolls his eyes, shaking his head.

"Isabella," he hears. Daphne is there, too—half-obscured behind a pile of linens, but there, reading a book and seemingly paying no attention. "No stock."

Isabella sighs and yanks Jensen about again. "Poets, always the best judge of fashion," she says, shaking her head and measuring Jensen’s shoulder span with a tape. "Certainly, why would one consult an expert? Pure foolishness."

Jared can barely keep his smile contained behind his hand. Jensen gives him a sour look. "Hush," he says, and Jared tries to blink innocently, sitting down on a box where he should be out of the way. Jensen looks down at the top of Isabella’s head. "I thought we’d finished with measuring."

She sends a glare up at him. "Do I tell you how to rhyme? No. No more complaining."

Jensen sends a pleading look at the ceiling, but he doesn’t speak again, and Jared watches Isabella work. She has a slight accent and dusky skin, and Jared guesses that she has blood from Aragon; she’s also beautiful, exquisitely so, and he thinks she might be an adept. Eglantine loves all the arts, after all, and a couturier could do very well in this house.

Eventually she finishes her measurements and makes a soft hmph, under her breath. "Charles!" she calls, and a young man pops his head out from the adjoining room. "It will fit, bring it out."

Jensen’s suit—Daphne puts her book down, and Jared sits up straight, staring. The sapphire blue ended up winning out, evidently. The coat accentuates Jensen’s newly-broad shoulders, fits close and tight against his back and ends just above the generous swell of his buttocks. The shirt they chose is a cream-white silk, left open at the throat and chest, and his skin is just barely kissed with summer’s sun and fairly glows in contrast. They’ve given him a low-slung waistcoat and breeches in a blue several shades darker and they fit breathtakingly close, showing off the tuck of his waist, his wider hips, the lovely weight of muscle in his thighs. Jared doesn’t know what Eglantine has him doing for exercise, but it’s working.

"The cobbler’s sending the boots tomorrow—they’re the mahogany leather, you remember, scuffed a bit as we discussed," Isabella says, looking Jensen up and down. Charles stands further back with a wooden box, and he’s maybe a year or two older than Jared, but he’s got the same assessing expression: looking at the fit, the effect, already turning an artist’s eye. Daphne stands and gestures briefly at Jensen, and he dutifully turns in a circle, his eyes cast down to the floor.

Jared doesn’t have an artist’s eye for clothing, he doesn’t know if there’s some cleverness to this design or not. It’s simple, despite the high quality of the fabric—an open coat rather than a doublet, the gapped collar and almost-bared chest giving him an already-rumpled look. Isabella taps a finger on her lips, and then turns to Charles and rummages through the proffered box. From this comes a length of dark gold braid, glinting subtly in the sunlight streaming in through the windows, and she lays it along the shoulders and collar and says, "Look up, poet," and Jensen does, and—oh. Jared takes in a breath. The gold catches at the flecks in his beautiful eyes, glows against his skin, and it’s just the touch of finery needed.

"Yes," Isabella says, and she’s not asking. Daphne nods, anyway, and Isabella swipes the braid away, gives it back to Charles. "We’ll add it tomorrow. Now, the coiffure."

Afterward, Daphne shoos the two of them out to the small garden to the rear of the estate. The play is nearly finished, but for a word here and there, and now it’s up to the actors. They walk along, arms bumping gently until Jared tucks his hand into Jensen’s elbow, and Jared tells the story about the time Amelia’s violet gown was torn ten minutes before presentation and Félicie and Phoebe had to help strip it off and re-dress her right in the corridor, the maids racing to fetch different jewels while the rest of the adepts quietly catcalled. Jensen smiles to hear it, though he doesn’t laugh.

They settle quietly on a bench below the great oak that dominates the garden. Jensen lets himself be turned by the shoulders so Jared can fuss with his hair. He leaves it in a queue, much of the time, and apparently that was Daphne’s suggestion—to maintain his more casual appearance, understated and honest, giving patrons the impression of simplicity, an artist hard at work who has no time for the fuss and polish of court life. It matches the clothes he tends to wear. Still, with how thick and lovely his hair is, it’s a waste as far as Jared’s concerned. He undoes the ribbon and runs his fingers through it, long scratching pulls just like Honore showed them, so long ago. It’s a warm day, hardly a cloud in the sky, and Jared scatters the golden-brown weight over Jensen’s shoulders, letting the air into it. Jensen sighs, and when Jared peeks over his shoulder he sees that his eyes are closed, his mouth set in a line.

"Isabella—is she the couturier for the house?—she did a wonderful job with your outfit," Jared offers. Jensen hums. "Good thing they finally decided on a color, so you won’t go naked to the fete."

Jensen’s eyes fly open and he darts a glance at Jared before he remembers, and huffs. Jared grins at him. "Yes, they finally did," Jensen says, shaking his head. He leans on one arm, looks up into the branches of the oak. "Isabella was the tie-breaker, finally. Apparently green would have been—unsubtle, for who knows what reason. And, yes, she’s the couturier. She made her marque three years ago, so now she’s saving money to open her own couterie, and training Charles to replace her before she goes. Poor lad."

Jared smiles, gathering up Jensen’s hair again. He begins to braid it, starting at the temples and winding back along the fine shape of Jensen’s skull. "You’ll be beautiful," he says, after a moment. He will, too. No cosmetic, the ladies had decided, and Jared had nodded fervently before he caught himself. A queue, hair caught back messily from his face with loose strands falling down from his temples, as though he’d been running his hands through it while watching his play be performed. Knowing Jensen, it’ll be the truth.

It’s quiet between them. A breeze slowly picks up, stirring the leaves, blowing cool relief against the damp back of Jared’s neck. He’s nearly finished with the braiding, joining the ropes of it at the base of Jensen’s skull, when Jensen says, "I wonder who it’ll be."

His voice is—odd. Not like Richard’s, when he and Jared chat about the possible patrons of the evening. Perhaps it’s different, when it’s the first. Of course, it would be.

"Do you know who will attend the fete?" Jared says, trying to think practically.

"Some of them." Jared wants to ask—can only imagine, really, but he’s seen only a few of Eglantine’s patrons in his visits to the house and he wants a clearer picture. Jensen looks down at his lap, though, and he’s running one thumb restlessly over his own wrist, and Jared bites his tongue. Jensen continues, after a moment. "I think what I’m dreading is the auction."

Jared frowns. "I’m sure the price will go high," he says. "After your wonderful play, and everything? How could it not?"

Jensen lets out a short laugh, just one low _ha_ under his breath, and he puts a hand back, catches Jared’s hand where it’s resting on his shoulder. "And a great patron-gift, too, no doubt," he says.

"Of course," Jared says, exaggerating it ridiculously, and Jensen sends a small smile over his shoulder. A little rue, in the corners of his mouth, but still a smile. "Enough to make up half your marque. I’m sure of it."

"From your lips to Elua’s ears," Jensen says, still smiling, but then turns and wraps his arm around Jared’s shoulders, tucks him in close. Jared goes easily, of course—it’s his favorite place to be. They sit quiet, just for a few moments, Jared leaning in and listening idly to the birdsong all around, the wind through the leaves. It’s remarkably private, today; no sounds of the city to be heard, no patrons wandering through, no adepts disturbing them. Jensen squeezes his shoulders, a little tighter, and then turns and catches Jared in a full embrace, awkwardly pressing their chests together and burying his face against the top of Jared’s head. Jared returns the embrace, immediately, breathing in Jensen’s sweet smell. It’s not—Jensen isn’t weeping, Jared can tell that, but without seeing his face he can’t tell what emotion is driving this, not for sure. He holds on, as best he can, gives Jensen whatever he needs.

It’s a full minute before Jensen takes a deep, cleansing breath and releases him, his hand cupping the back of Jared’s head. "I’m sorry," he says, quiet, and Jared shakes his head, looking up into Jensen’s face. Jensen strokes a thumb over Jared’s cheek, the corner of his mouth turning up for a moment. He leans in, making Jared’s breath hitch in his chest—but the kiss is pressed to Jared’s cheek instead, Jensen’s mouth soft and plush, lingering. Jared can feel the color rushing to his face, that reaction he just can’t train away, and he tangles his hand around Jensen’s wrist, holds him close. When Jensen finally pulls back, Jared’s heart is thumping, and he wants—

Jensen tucks the loose strands of Jared’s hair behind his ears. "Come on," he says, after a pause. He stands up, catching Jared’s hand with his own. He looks—not happy, certainly, but calmer. Resolute. "Daphne’s too busy with supervising the practice to worry about what we’re doing. We can raid the kitchen and see if there are any sweets being prepared for this evening, maybe read _The Mendicant’s Promise_."

Jared lets himself be drawn to his feet, and tucked under Jensen’s arm again for the walk back toward the kitchen. "Only if you’ll do the pirate’s part," he says, and Jensen smiles down at him.

"You’re just trying to get out of singing," Jensen teases, gently, and Jared protests, of course, but really only for show, just to make Jensen roll his eyes and smile.

He’s thinking too hard, after the day’s done. Eglantine is preparing for a private concert for patrons and Jensen has a private lesson, and so Jared’s sent home a little early, walking back up the hill with Thierry. It’s still warm, though the day is dwindling. Thierry walks on his left side, shielding Jared from the street in case any carriages pass too close, but they’ve made this trip enough times that he’s relaxed, not guarding so much as just following along.

"What’s the matter, chatterbird?" Thierry asks, after a while. Jared blinks and looks up, around. They’re nearly past Dahlia already and Jared’s hardly paid any attention. "The artists didn’t steal your tongue for their sculpture garden, did they?"

"No," Jared says, shoving lightly at Thierry’s hip. The man doesn’t budge, of course. He’s strong—not like Marcus’s beautifully sculpted muscle, but stocky, solid. He doesn’t hold Jared’s hand while they walk, nor does he even allow Jared to take his arm—says it’s below Jared’s station, and above his own—but they’re friendly, now, as much as Thierry lets them be. "Just thinking. Jensen’s nervous about his debut."

"It’s an important day," Thierry says, placidly. Jared kicks at a small stone pried up out of the cobbled street, and Thierry lands a gentle smack to the back of his head. "Go nicely," he says. "You’ve an image to maintain."

"No one knows who I am," Jared argues back, but he leaves the stone, folds his hands behind his back and steps more carefully, hips rolling smoothly as he was taught. Thierry grunts in approval and Jared ducks his head, smiles. "I feel bad for your children," he says. "Such a taskmaster for a father."

"My children shan’t grow up to be pretty little scoundrels, so I take it as a compliment, young master," Thierry says.

He has two, Jared knows—a boy around seven, and a girl who’s barely walking. His wife is a cook, in the household of a comte who lives in the City, and Jared is reliably informed that she’s the most beautiful woman in the world, though she nags like a fishwife. Jared drums his fingers against each other, tucked against the small of his back, and watches a carriage go by—driver on top, footman beside him, but the footman looks about Jared’s age. "What do you think they’ll be?" Jared says, not really thinking about it. Thierry looks down at him, frowning. "Your boy, say. Will he be a footman, like you?"

Thierry’s gait doesn’t slow, but he doesn’t respond for a few moments. Jared glances up at his face, making sure he didn’t cause offense, but Thierry’s just looking ahead, sturdy and calm as ever. "He could be," he says, finally. "Natural enough job, in the City. Enough rich houses that need a good steady lad. Juliette wants to get him an education, teach him his letters and all. I think he’d do better to get an apprenticeship in a trade, like you lot. A smith, say, or a cooper."

Jared smiles, imagining—a little boy, with Thierry’s plain square face, stubbornly turning out barrels from chubby hands.

"But, no," Thierry says, then. "He’ll like as not be a servant, just like his mother and father." Jared glances up again, and Thierry gives him a little smile, rests a big hand on his shoulder. "We are what we’re raised to be, young Jared, unless blessed Elua guides us otherwise. Imagine—one day, my Paul could be running and fetching for you in my place, and you’ll probably teach him all your terrible rock-kicking tricks." He’s jesting, in that dry way he has, but—Jared frowns, unaccountably dismayed. The image of the little cooper dissolves away. Thierry squeezes his shoulder, then gently urges Jared just one step ahead, into the place he’s meant to walk. They’re approaching the first of the long line of linden trees, which means they’re nearly back to the Orchis estate. Jared lifts his chin, makes sure his gait is smooth and perfect, and Thierry falls in quietly behind. If any patrons pass in a carriage, or if another adept goes by, they will see a child of the Court, elegant and poised, exactly as he’s meant to be. Thierry’s right: he can’t let down the house.

*

Over the next few weeks, Jared is distracted. Richard has to tell him twice which suits to bring up from the laundry, and during exercises he finds his attention drifting enough that first Percy and later Rose ask if he’s getting sick. During a sermon in the house’s shrine, Noemie tells the story of how Naamah lay with strangers in the stews of Bhodistan that blessed Elua might eat, and she asks Jared and Eveline and Laura to think about what the story means to them, about how Elua’s sole precept of _love as thou wilt_ matches Naamah’s actions. Jared tries, he does, but he finds himself staring out the window of the shrine instead, eyes on the birds flitting in and out of the eaves and seeing nothing.

"I’m not sure the sermon did much for you today," Noemie says.

Jared startles, and when he looks up the others are gone and Noemie is watching him, her great dark eyes gently curious. "I’m sorry," Jared says, bowing his head.

Noemie doesn’t respond to that. She rises gracefully from her kneeling cushion and begins to tidy the shrine: scooping the other cushions up and stacking them to one side of the room to be stored away, blowing out the candles lining the wood-paneled walls, her movements slow and easy, unhurried. Jared would leap to help, but she hasn’t dismissed him. She’s young, their priestess—years younger than Félicie, her face still untouched by time, her body slim and graceful in the scarlet robe of her office. Naamah’s statue stands silent above them both, arms extended in welcome, a smile on her marble lips. The censer placed on the sideboard is still emitting small plumes of smoke and she opens it up, blows the flame out. The silence in the room sits softly against Jared’s shoulders, no expectation or demand, but he still finds it hard to speak. Eventually, he takes a deep breath. "My friend, Jensen," he says, slowly. "His debut is in only a few days."

The censer is stowed away in the cupboard before Noemie turns and looks at him again. "Are you nervous for him? Jealous?" He frowns, looks down. "Jealousy would not be unheard of. You haven’t yet been initiated into Naamah’s mysteries, but you are a child of the Court. You know some of what serving her involves."

"I don’t—I want him to be happy," he says, and then immediately has to correct himself. "I wish him success. It’s only…" He trails off, and swallows. Noemie’s eyes are still on him and he looks away, knows that his cheeks are flushing dark. "It’s—stupid. I know better."

Noemie comes and stands before him, offers him both hands and, when he takes them, pulls him easily to his feet. She’s only a few inches taller than him, but he still feels—small, young, face-to-face with her. His face feels hot. "We each serve Naamah in our own way, for our own reasons," she says, voice gentle. "Each patron that comes to us becomes part of us, and we part of them, in ways great and small. Only remember that desire of the body is not the same as desire of the heart, though they can often blend or become confused."

He nods, ashamed, and she tilts his chin up with a finger so that he’s forced to look at her. Her expression is warm, knowing. "You wish your friend well, and that is a kindness. No matter what private thoughts you have of him, or what worries you might have, surely he would want to know at least that."

That night, after he assists Richard and the night’s fete begins, after he and Eveline have their supper, he leaves Eveline to play with Gemma and goes to his room alone, lights a candle and finds a scrap of paper and pen and sits, and tries to think how to be honest, and kind. He’s not a writer, doesn’t have Jensen’s gift of saying just the right thing. He thinks of Jensen, beautiful in the sapphire silk. Of his fingers, stained with ink, splayed flat over a book or cramped on a pen. The flat, calm expression he fixed on Faolan Garneau; the abstracted distance as he fretted, that day in the garden, and how he’d looked at Jared after.

The note he writes, eventually, is simple. His days since the last time they saw each other, a dream he had, hopes that the play will be well-received. He ends it with: _I will pray to Naamah for you_ , and he means it.

The courier takes the note away, and there isn’t a response before the scheduled day. Jensen’s debut is on a night that Orchis is closed to patrons and Richard doesn’t require his assistance for anything. Jared goes to the shrine. Noemie opens it to him, kisses his brow, and leaves him alone. He lights the candle at Naamah’s feet, the great one made of beeswax that smells so sweet, and he lays a spray of anemones cut from the garden before her, the petals deep red and bright against her white stone flesh. He kneels, _abeyante_ , the sun sinking behind the statue, and he looks up into her gentle face and thinks, _please_. He doesn’t know how to articulate it better than that.

His next visit to Eglantine is scheduled for ten days later. He dresses carefully, in the fawn-colored breeches and a pale green shirt passed to him from Percy, his better boots, his hair braided prettily over his shoulder. Thierry doesn’t needle him on the walk, for which Jared’s grateful. When they arrive, he’s allowed to go directly to Jensen’s room—but a maid has to take him, because of course Jensen has been assigned to adept’s quarters, now. He follows the girl quietly, his heart beating high and hard in the base of his throat, memorizing the new directions: up to the second floor, past the east wing’s sculpture gallery, into an unfamiliar corridor on the south side of the house, passing door after door until finally they come to one with a painting of a beautiful city by the sea beside it. The maid curtsies to Jared and disappears down the other end of the corridor, and he’s left to knock.

"What," comes Jensen’s voice, muffled behind the door.

Jared swallows, and tucks his loose hair behind his ears. "It’s me," he says, and then he hopes unnecessarily, "it’s Jared."

It’s only a moment before the door opens, and then Jensen’s there, smiling at him. He looks—entirely the same, and for a second Jared doesn’t understand how that’s so, but then Jensen is embracing him about the shoulders and he leans into it, closing his eyes in relief. Jensen’s wearing only breeches and that old shirt of Luc’s that he brought away from Balm, better-fitting now, his feet bare and his hair loose over his shoulders. He looks at ease, in a way Jared wouldn’t have ever expected, but is grateful to see. The room, once Jared’s drawn in and Jensen closes the door again behind him, isn’t precisely massive; not like Richard’s, not nearly so sprawling or opulent. There are high small windows on the south wall, dim light from the morning spilling over the dark wood floor, and a little fireplace tucked against the far wall, a thick rug before it and a desk to its side, and already papers and books are scattered across it, a pen stuck in an inkwell where Jared must have pulled Jensen away from his work. The bed dominates the other side of the room, a mattress twice the size of Jared’s with only a simple drapery the color of dark forests tied between the posts, the cream blankets twisted and unmade. Jared swallows again, and turns his eyes from it, but Jensen is watching him with a rueful smile when he turns around, and he knows he was caught.

"It’s all right," he says, while Jared squirms. "I know you have questions."

Jensen sits on the foot of the bed and pats the blankets beside him, and Jared doesn’t have much choice but to hop up and sit where he’s told. The familiar arm doesn’t come to lie over his shoulders, and he bites his tongue, missing it. He leans into Jensen’s side, anyway, jostling his shoulder with his own. "How was the play?" he asks, finally, and Jensen laughs, and tells him the story.

The Dowayne and Roxane had arranged for the performance to begin just before sundown, with a carefully selected list of invitees. Daphne’s patrons were all invited, of course, but also all of those who loved the theater, those who enjoyed literary salons, a selection of nobility and the wealthy and artists alike. Jensen had introduced the play himself, carefully costumed as the rumpled writer. The patrons knew what would come after, but they listened politely enough, and watched the play, and applauded sincerely once it was done.

"Denis was perfect," Jensen says, leaning back on his hands on the mattress. Jared has taken off his boots and shifts to sit crosslegged beside him, raptly watching his face. He’s more comfortable, talking about the work. "Even the lines I still wasn’t sure about, he made Anafiel come to life. I saw some of the patrons wiping tears away, in the scene just before the end."

Jared remembers the scene. _I, and thou_ , he thinks, and puts a hand to his face. "So—they were pleased?" he says.

Jensen glances at him. "They were," he says, more slowly. He casts his eyes down, looking at his knees, or at nothing. "At the reception, after, several of them came to me and Daphne, expressing their… admiration."

Wine flowed, and intelligent conversation. Denis and Auguste were both applauded, the patrons already well-familiar with them both from performances past. After some time, the old Dowayne called for Jensen to give a reading of one of his original poems—they’d chosen the one about autumn, a little somber and rich with meaning. " _Whoever's homeless now, will build no shelter_ ," Jensen recites, his eyes distant.

The auction, then. "Who won?" Jared says, after a beat of silence.

Jensen sits forward, lacing his fingers together between his knees. "My lord Didier Clavel, Comte de Souverain. He told me that it was the poem, more than the play, that made him keep bidding." He glances at Jared and his mouth quirks, at the corner. "No, I won’t tell you anything about it."

Jared’s face is warm, again. "I wasn’t going to ask," he says, and it’s such a lie that Jensen laughs, even if it’s only little. Jared grins, in response, even if his heart’s not totally in it. Jensen hasn’t volunteered the final price, and Jared makes up his mind not to ask that either—nor does he ask after the comte’s looks, or his skill, or what he asked for, much as Jared’s gut roils to know. He nudges Jensen with his elbow, instead. "At least say—did he give you a good patron-gift? I did say he would."

Jensen smiles at him. "Yes, prophet," he says, tweaking the end of Jared’s braid. "He did."

He slips off the foot of the bed to stand, and then pulls the old shirt off over his head. Jared takes a shaky breath in—Jensen’s body is familiar, but it’s been so long since it was bared to him. He’s bigger now, of course, at the age of majority. He’s not slim like Richard, or sculpted like Marcus, but his shoulders are broad, his stomach flat, and when he turns, and puts his back toward the sunny window, Jared’s taken by the shape of him, the way his back narrows down toward his waist, and there—

"Oh, Jensen," Jared says, almost breathless.

"I visited the marquist, just as soon as I could," Jensen says, looking at Jared over his shoulder. His breeches sit low, low enough that Jared can see the dimples beside his spine, and there at his back’s lowest point there’s already ink, etched into his skin. It’s not quite black, but instead the deepest brown of bistre. Scrollwork only so far, forming a shape almost like a spade that widens out over the valley of his spine before it’s abruptly cut off. Only two inches, Jared estimates, and the skin around it is still a little pink and inflamed. Jared reaches out and touches it, just one finger, and Jensen flinches just enough that he yanks his hand back, apologizing. "It’s all right," he says, and catches Jared’s hand to squeeze it. "The marquist only wants me to make an appointment if I can afford at least an inch, but we already worked out the design. The male Eglantine shape, of course, with the scrollwork in bistre and the leaves of darkest green, only a few blush flowers scattered here and there. The art was lovely."

"You sound excited," Jared says, smiling at him. It has been—a very long time, since he heard that from Jensen.

He gets a shrug, but Jensen doesn’t quite deny it. "I’m glad to start," is all he says, and he squeezes Jared’s hand again.

Now that Jensen is an adept in his own right, Daphne isn’t precisely his instructor, but she is still his mentor in his writing, and they meet with her that afternoon in the east gallery. She gives Jared a rare smile, so lovely for a moment that Jared has to catch his breath. "Have you congratulated Jensen’s success, orchid?" she asks.

"I’m very proud," Jared says, solemn, just to make Jensen roll his eyes.

"We all are," she says, and it could have been a jest but she sounds—sincere, truly, her expression soft in a way Jared’s never seen. Jensen ducks his head. She puts her hand on the crown of it, slides down to cup the back of his skull, and then straightens, lifts her chin and looks serious once again. "We cannot rest on our laurels. There were a few lines that needed to be reworded in the fourth scene. Jensen, you know the ones I mean."

"Yes, Daphne," he says. The manuscript is waiting on the table, a clean-copy all ready to be marked up again. Jensen sits and gets a pen, Daphne sinking into the armchair near the banked fireplace. Jared looks back and forth between them, a little dismayed, and Jensen gives him a little grin. "Come now, Jared," he says. "You’ll be our Anafiel, won’t you?"

"Yes, Jensen," he says, parroting Jensen’s tone, and resigns himself to an afternoon of lovelorn dialogue.

*

Jared prays more, in the time that follows. He speaks to Naamah and sometimes to Elua, and in a way more bound to the earth with Noemie, and Richard, and Percy. He watches the adepts, ruffled and relaxed and sometimes sore on the mornings after their assignations, and listens to their gossip about their patrons. Phoebe is kind, and kinder when she’s left a good patron-gift; Amelia is hardly kind at all, but if a patron pleased her well then she will at least pay the gentleman or lady a good compliment. Richard tells Jared, when they’re alone, not to listen to the other adepts, not to imitate them or hold their opinions above his own. "When you serve," Richard says, while Jared’s watching him dress, "you do it for your own reasons. You’ll know them, when it’s time."

"What if—" He's worrying a thick length of velvet ribbon between his fingers, wrinkling it, but he—doesn't know how to say what he's thinking.

Richard stills his hands, and Jared looks up to find him smiling. "You'll think yourself sick, dear one," he says, and Jared huffs. Richard tweaks the point of his chin. "It's nothing to do with logic, not in the end. You'll see." He drops a kiss on Jared's forehead, then pulls him to his feet. "Now, help me with my doublet, dear. I like the way you tie the points."

From Jensen's stories, he learns that the adepts of Eglantine are less busy than those of Orchis—though perhaps it's more correct to say that they're busy in different ways. While Orchis's adepts gather as they will in the great hall each night the house is open, to fete and make merry with patrons and form contracts at each other's whim, Eglantine's adepts are separated more distinctly. There are events multiple nights each week, but one night will be for the singers, another for the acrobats and musicians, another for the actors and playwrights. The painters and sculptors will host exhibitions and their patrons will come and admire their work, might buy it to take home to their great houses, and an assignation might come after—but the art is the focus of the thing. Jensen draws an assignation perhaps once a week, and often less than that. "But then," Jared says, perched again on Jensen's unmade bed, watching Jensen at his calisthenics. "How are you ever meant to make your marque?"

Jensen's braced rigidly on the rug before the fire, balanced on his elbows, lifted up on his toes. It has started to grow cold outside, but it's warm in here, and sweat is beading on his bare back. His marque has gained barely an inch. "I have my writing," he says, voice shaking a little with the effort of holding the pose. "Daphne thinks it won't be too long before I can have a volume published—proceeds going mostly to the house, of course, but I'll get my portion."

He relaxes finally, dropping down and then rolling onto his back on the rug. In the firelight he's all gold, his almost-straight nose lit in lovely profile, his generous mouth open and panting a little. Jared tucks his hands under his thighs, tries not to stare. "And in the meantime?"

"In the meantime," Jensen says, and lifts up onto his elbows to smile a little at Jared. "There are enough patrons of literature who wish to discuss the latest works at the salon that my coffers won't run dry."

That year, for the Longest Night, Orchis goes with an animal theme—Richard is a sleek, gorgeous panther, Félicie a bright peacock, Marcus a grinning laughing lion, his golden hair a wild mane about his face—and Jensen succumbs finally to Jared's wheedling and then outright pleading and tells him that Eglantine will go as a band of Tsingani travelers, bedecked in gold and bright silks and armed with tricks and stories and pranks to play on the guests at the Midwinter Masque. Jensen pulls a ducat from behind Jared's ear, to demonstrate, and Jared laughs aloud, delighted.

He doesn't get to hear about Jensen's patrons, beyond a name here or there, sometimes a brief tale of how the contract was made. Faolan Garneau wrote Jensen a letter, praising his debut play, but also offering gentle critique of some of the themes and offering suggestions for change. Jensen was so irritated with him that, at a salon hosted by Daphne and one of the other literary adepts, he went to Garneau himself and disputed his criticisms—and Garneau said that he would only entertain further argument if the Dowayne drew up a contract, for that very night. Jared flushes dark, up his chest all the way to his cheeks, but luckily Jensen is busy looking for a book on the west library's shelves and doesn't see it. "He—might have been right, after all," is all Jensen says about it. "Perhaps. But only about some of it. The speech at the end was perfectly done, I won't change it."

"No," Jared says, wrapping his arms around himself. He remembers the way Garneau had smiled at Jensen. He wishes he was still wearing his cloak, if only to hide his flaming face with it. "You shouldn't."

In the spring, Antoine makes his marque and leaves the house, with one last great fete. Jared can't attend, of course, but he's there to see Antoine off when his carriage arrives. He always loved Antoine, just a little, the first adept of Orchis he ever met—after Félicie, of course. Antoine kisses Jared on each cheek, then tweaks his nose, and then stands and gives Richard and Félicie and Rose, carrying baby Remy, proper kisses of farewell. "Go on, then," Félicie says, shoving him lightly at the shoulders, and he grins and sweeps a bow before he disappears into the carriage. It's one with proper livery, a golden shield on deep green, which Jared recognizes as that of the minor baronetcy of Rocaille. Félicie and Richard stand together for a moment, arms linked, nearly of a height with their heads tipped together. "He'll do well," Félicie says, as the carriage leaves the courtyard, Antoine blowing kisses from the open window. Richard hums. "A kept plaything of a bored baroness, is what the nobles will say. Did you see her, though, when she came?"

"She loves him," Richard says, as though it's the simplest truth. Jared gazes after the carriage, though the footmen are already closing the great gates, and can hardly imagine. "Her patron-gifts were as large as her purse could manage, spring and autumn. He'll be the declared consort of Lady Philippa by summer."

"I should seduce a prince," Rose says, rueful as she pats Remy's little back, and Félicie laughs as they all turn to go back inside. "Imagine the wardrobe he'd buy me!"

"I'm not sure that _love as thou wilt_ was meant to apply to gowns," Richard says, with a smile tipped down at Jared, and Jared grins as Rose immediately begins to protest that love of silk and velvet could be as strong as any other.

Spring slips into summer. Jensen's marque grows by another inch, a single dark green leaf etched into the smooth golden skin on his lower back. Daphne has approved another poem for the volume of verse they're putting together, and he's constantly working, his fingers almost always spattered with ink. His patrons don't mind it.

At the beginning of July, the days hot and bright and apricots heavy in the tree at the farthest end of Orchis's garden, Jared is sitting and playing chess alone in one of the sitting rooms. Richard is out of the house, contracted with a patron for a long visit to the country, and they've already finished lessons for the day, and he doesn't have aught else to do. He's been teaching himself the game, after finding a book on it in Eglantine's library, and he's leaning over the board trying to plan out his moves when Gemma trots into the room. "You have a _visitor_!" she exclaims.

She's so pleased and proud over her message that Jared's distracted, for a second. "You—what?" he says. "Me?"

Gemma nods vigorously, her bright copper ringlets swinging around her face. "An adept," she says, savoring it. She comes over to the chess table and leans in close. "He's _beautiful_."

One of the maids comes in, at a significantly more sedate pace, and bobs a curtsy. "Jensen nó Eglantine has arrived," she says, and glances at Gemma, who's now bouncing. "As you may have heard. The Second says you may receive him in the garden, if you wish."

Jared blinks and shoves up to his feet. He's—not dressed for visitors, not really, just in a loose white shirt and short breeches, because it's too hot for anything else. Jensen wouldn't expect him to be grandly attired, of course, but—

"Gemma, sweetie," he says, going to his knees in front of her. "Can you braid my hair, please?"

She claps her hands and hops behind him, easily tugging his hair loose and into her hands. It's almost down to the middle of his back, so she has a lot to work with, but hair-braiding is an easy way to entertain her and she's already a master at it. She'll do right by him.

It's only ten minutes before Jared comes out onto the verandah behind the house to find Jensen waiting on the wide stone bench, below the arch of honeysuckle. He's dressed with a bit more care than usual, in a linen suit the color of seafoam, his hair tied with a matching ribbon. No stock, though, of course. Jared tucks his loose hair behind his ears and comes down the steps, his bare feet warmed through by the stone. "What are you doing here?" he says, and Jensen startles, standing up.

"I can travel, now—alone, that is," Jensen says. He's clutching a book to his chest—when isn't he, really—but he smiles at Jared, small though it is. "I thought, well. You've come to visit me, so many times. I wanted to see you."

Their last visit was only last week. Jared smiles, pleasure seeping through his chest. "I'm happy that you did," he says, truly, and Jensen's smile widens a little.

They sit on the bench, the honeysuckle thick in the air around them. Jared recounts a story of the twin brothers who contracted with Phoebe and Amelia, and how the girls had laughed over the boys' rivalry, each wanting to outdo the other in the bedchamber. Jensen smiles, responds with a story of Auguste's about a noble lady who thinks she can act and contracts with him for 'lessons,' as much as she does for his other skills. Jensen lifts his voice into a falsetto, having apparently met the lady: _you're so talented, my darling_ , he shrills, and Jared laughs aloud, leaning against Jensen's shoulder.

They're quiet for a moment, then. Jensen finds his hand and holds it, open against his own knee, tracing the lines of his palm. His skin is still pale, compared to Jared's own. "Your birthday will come soon, won't it," Jensen says, not asking.

Jared looks up, at Jensen's face. He's watching the motion of his finger, a few strands of honey-brown hair fallen down before his eyes. "Just a few weeks," Jared says. His heart beats harder, just thinking of it. "I'll be dedicated, finally."

Jensen makes a low humming sound, and wraps Jared's hand in both of his own. He still doesn't look up. "I'm going to ask you a question. I don't—I don't want you to be upset with me, or think—anything bad. It's only a question." Jared tilts his head, and covers Jensen's top hand with his own, so that their four hands are in a pile, one atop the other. Jensen's mouth tilts, seeing it, and he finally looks up, meeting Jared's eyes squarely. The smile fades, though, as he licks his lips, and takes a deep breath. "Have you ever thought of… not dedicating yourself to Naamah?"

"What?" Jared blinks. Of all the questions— "Why?"

Jensen pulls his hands back and stands, pacing a few steps out. "You could be…" He shakes his head, and turns around. "Jared, you could be so many things. You're so clever. You're better at languages than I am. You could go to be a player in one of the theaters in the city, or learn—anything, navigation, or horticulture, or to be a scholar of history. I know you borrow books from Eglantine's library." Jared bites his lip, guilty, and Jensen waves a hand, dismissing that. "My point is—you could be anything, Jared. Anything at all."

"I—" Jared shakes his head, confused. "Why are you telling me this?"

Jensen comes in close, swiftly, and kneels before Jared on the grass. He lays his hands on Jared's knees, commanding his full attention—as though he doesn't have it, always. His eyes are steady on Jared's, the beautiful green turned almost bluish with the color of his jacket, clear and focused in the bright sun. "I just want you to consider it," he says, voice low but strong. "You don't have to serve, if you don't want to. The house will—they'll find something for you to do, and I'll save money toward your marque myself, we can figure out a way. If you tell me, I'll do it."

Jared's thrown back, in his memory. A night, years ago, when they were both children at Balm. Jensen's hands tight on his. He draws back a little, now, something tight forming in his breast. "I want to," he says. He shakes his head, frowning. "You don't—do you not think I can? That I would be a poor Servant of Naamah?"

A bit of shock widens Jensen's eyes. "No, of course not," Jensen says, but with a note in his voice like he's trying to mollify Jared. Something Jared has heard adepts use on patrons, but not something Jensen has ever used with him.

He pushes at Jensen's hands and slips off the bench, takes a few steps away. The apricots are fragrant, close to dropping, and he keeps his eyes on them so he doesn't have to look around. This isn't something he ever thought he'd hear, not from Jensen. "I don't know why you're asking me, then," he says, and his voice is—frail, a tremble to it he didn't realize would be there. The tightness in his chest has spread and he swallows, blinking hard. "Are you trying to send me away?"

"Jared," he hears, the tone of it almost anguished, and Jensen turns him around and crushes him into his chest, strong arms wrapping tight around Jared's back, and Jared hugs him around the neck, face pressed in close against his throat and his breath coming thick and hot against Jensen's skin. Jensen's hand cups the back of his head, and the apology is murmured fervent against the top of his ear: "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you, truly. I never want you to be far from me."

It eases something. The tears spill over all the same. They end up sitting, under the shade of the apricot tree, Jared half in Jensen's lap and his face buried in the fine linen of Jensen's coat, his hands tight in it and crumpling it, his shoulders shaking despite Jensen's arm around them. The storm passes soon enough. Jared's left sniffling, his head aching a little and his face hot and clammy. He turns his face, enough to let the air touch it, and looks out at the bright garden, the neat paths and hedges, the vines climbing the high stone walls with the city obscured behind them. Jensen's thumb is dragging up and down the soft skin at the base of his neck, under the braid that Gemma did so prettily for him, the motion soothing and slow. Jared finds his other hand where it's resting on Jared's arm, lays his own hand on top of it. Jensen tangles their fingers together, right away, and Jared closes his eyes, tipping his forehead against Jensen's collarbone.

"I'm sorry," Jensen says, again. His voice is soft, and honest. "I truly didn't want to hurt you, Jared, I'm so sorry that I did."

"I know," Jared says. He does. It wasn't only the shock that made him cry, though, and he knows that too. Everything has felt like—so much, lately. He sniffs, again, and tries discreetly to wipe his face. When he pulls back, his eyes almost well over again. "Oh, look what I've done to your beautiful coat!"

Jensen drags his thumb over Jared's wet cheek and, when Jared reluctantly drags his eyes up, only shrugs. "It's only water, and a bit of salt," he says, gently. He pulls a handkerchief from an inside pocket of his coat and Jared takes it, wipes his face more thoroughly. It's lovely soft linen, embroidered with a single eglantine blossom in cream and green at one corner. When he tries to give it back, Jensen just folds his hand over it. "Keep it," he says. He smiles, or tries to, at least. His eyes are a little red, too. "It's the least I can do, as an apology."

The handkerchief is duly folded and tucked into the pocket of Jared's breeches. Jared drags his toes through the grass. They're still sitting a bit at cross-purposes, Jared's shoulder leaning against Jensen's chest, facing different directions. Jared tucks his head down, leans it against Jensen's shoulder, and Jensen presses a kiss to the top of his head. Jared closes his eyes, and grips Jensen's hand tight. They sit, quiet, for a long time.

*

The morning of Jared's thirteenth birthday dawns clear, the day bright and hot. He bathes early and Richard comes to wash his hair, his fingers gently massaging Jared's scalp, washing him clean. Under Richard's direction he dresses simply—no doublet, no livery. A little after the city's bells strike noon, he comes to the Dowayne's office in his best white shirt, his softest breeches and boots, his hair left unbound over his shoulders. Félicie is waiting for them, and she opens the door, gestures Jared inside, closes the door behind him.

He's never been alone with the Dowayne. He crosses to the kneeling cushion set before the throne and sinks _abeyante_ , head bowed and hands folded in his lap.

"Jared," the Dowayne says, voice warm. "Look up, child."

The Dowayne is sitting forward on his throne, his elbows resting on his knees while he looks down at Jared, considering him. Jared makes his face serene, solemn, and the Dowayne grins at him, unexpectedly.

"You don't need to stand on ceremony, not right now," the Dowayne says. He laces his fingers together, his hands only barely showing his age. He's in his sixties, perhaps, but still graceful and handsome, his eyes the grey-blue of a clouded day as they search Jared's face.

"The adepts speak well of you. Félicie is very pleased by your progress and Richard has nothing but praise for your sweet nature, your good humor." Jared smiles and ducks his head at the compliment, and earns himself a soft laugh. "And there's the shy charm that keeps the bloom of you fresh."

There's a little pause and Jared peeks back up. The Dowayne smiles at him, more softly. "I have a question for you, Jared. I am required to ask it, by law, and I know it will seem like mere formality, but I charge you to answer me honestly. Will you?"

Jared swallows. "Yes, my lord," he manages, but it's barely more than a whisper.

The Dowayne beckons him closer, and he rises as though drawn up by strings, steps up onto the dais. His face is taken in two well-manicured hands, holding him still and in place so he can't duck away. "Is it your wish to be dedicated into the service of Naamah?" the Dowayne asks, finally, his voice soft between them. "By the oath of my office I will accept any answer you give."

Jared is nodding, almost before he's stopped speaking. "Yes, my lord, yes, yes," he says, words stumbling as he tries to get them out. "More than anything, please. I wish it."

The Dowayne smiles at him, wide and true. "I told you this when you joined the house, and I hold to it," he says, stroking his thumbs over Jared's cheeks. "Jared, you will do Naamah proud."

He releases Jared and rings the bell beside the throne. The door opens, immediately, and when Jared turns Félicie and Richard are both waiting, smiling at him. "Come along, dear one," Richard says, holding out his hand.

The shrine, at the house's rear, is full of light, warm apricot-scented air streaming through the open window. Noemie greets them in her scarlet robe, her dark hair tumbling loose around her kind face. "My lord," she says, bowing ever-so-slightly.

The Dowayne bows slightly back, to Jared's surprise. "This child is come to be dedicated to Naamah," he says, and Jared knows he's repeated the same phrase dozens of times with dozens of other apprentices, but the smile he sends down to Jared, his elegant hand on Jared's shoulder, still warms Jared through to the bone.

Noemie offers her hands to Jared and he steps forward, takes them. She stoops just a little to kiss him on both cheeks. "Be welcome, brother," she murmurs, and Jared closes his eyes for a moment, her smell like incense and honey going straight to his head.

There is another man there, an acolyte with a long golden braid in the same scarlet surplice as Noemie's, though he's years younger than she. The shrine has been bedecked with flowers, great vases on the sideboard and on either side of Naamah's statue, their blossoms huge and bright with summer's blush. Jared expects to kneel, but Noemie draws him instead to stand in the center of the floor, where the light is spilling in. The Dowayne and Félicie and Richard do kneel, all of them, bearing witness.

"Is it your wish to be dedicated to the service of Naamah?" Noemie says, echoing the Dowayne perfectly. She holds Jared's eyes with her own, the question simple.

Jared still doesn't have to think. "Yes," he says.

The young acolyte, kneeling, proffers a stone basin full of clear water. Noemie dips the silver aspergillum and sprinkles a few drops, each hitting cool and heavy on Jared's hair, his shoulders. "By Naamah's sacred river," she says, "I baptize you into her service." The words have the weight of ceremony to them and Jared's lips part. Next, the acolyte offers a perfect honey-cake and Noemie breaks off a small piece and places it on Jared's tongue, tipping his chin up with a single finger. It's still warm from baking, the taste a shock in Jared's mouth. She holds his eyes until he swallows. "May your flesh be bound unto the sweetness of desire." Next, a fine-wrought goblet full of crimson wine, which Noemie tips up to his lips so his mouth is filled with the blackcurrant flavor of it, the alcohol sharp after the honey. "May your blood rise to the headiness of passion." At last, the acolyte holds up a glass vial of clear golden oil, into which Noemie dips her fingers. She smears it over his brow in a line, then rests her curled knuckles against Jared's cheek. The oil smells of roses. "May your soul ever find grace in the service of Naamah," she says, softly, her eyes dark and luminous on Jared's.

Tears prick behind his eyes and his blood feels too-warm, rushing up to his cheeks but also—everywhere, his skin sensitive and tingling, his body awake and bright. Above Noemie's head the serene marble face of Naamah wavers in his vision and his breath shudders in his chest. He closes his eyes and feels a oneness—with the adepts of his house, with the adepts of every house, with every servant who has ever laid down in worship of his goddess. With Naamah herself, and with Elua, brightest of angels.

"So mote it be," Noemie says, and when Jared opens his eyes the tears streak down his face, but she smiles at him. If any were to understand, it would be her. The acolyte has withdrawn, and Noemie steps to the side, sweeping her arm toward the statue. "You may offer your service."

Richard appears at Jared's side. In his hands he holds a small cage, domed in bronze with thin bars, and inside is a dove—white on her head and the thick down of her belly, her wings speckled with grey and brown. Beautiful. Richard smiles, whispers, "Go on," and Jared carefully opens the little door and reaches in with both hands to catch the bird, as gently as he can. She beats her wings against him, surprised, but he removes her safely and holds her for a moment to his chest. He takes the two steps across the sun-warmed parquet and kneels on the bare floor before the statue, bending his head in supplication. The dove quivers in his hands. He looks up and finds Naamah's face, heart thudding, and then he tosses the dove up into the air. She explodes into motion, wings flapping furiously, and she turns a full circle around the room, once and then twice, and then finds the open window and flies out into the golden day, free.

Noemie touches his shoulder and he rises, heart so full he can't speak. "Welcome," she says. "Servant of Naamah."

On a day that a child is dedicated to Naamah, the house is always closed to guests. There is a feast that afternoon in the great hall, all the adepts of Orchis gathered to greet their new member. Jared sits between Percy and Nicole, honored and teased by turns, and they dine well, the wine flowing, though Jared is allowed only two goblets.

When the sun begins to sink over the city, the Showing is prepared. Jared hasn't been to this room before—at least, not when it was in use. Balm's was smaller, more intimate. At Orchis, the Showing chamber is just off the great hall—still open only to those guests who are invited, of course, but any adept of the Night Court may attend the rites of Naamah's servants. The room is arrayed somewhat like the theater at Eglantine's heart: wide tiers rise around the stage in a half-circle, though instead of seats there are only thick kneeling cushions scattered here and there, that the viewers may repose at their leisure. Félicie leads Jared to the very front and center, a scant ten feet from the stage, dropping a kiss onto his head before she takes her leave and finds her own place. He sinks down to the cushion, kneeling automatically. Esme and Percy sit somewhat near him, smiling his way, but conversation is low and murmuring, what laughter he hears muted. His mouth is dry with excitement.

Candles are lit all around the stage and the chandelier above blazes. Laura blows out the lamps by the door, so the room dims somewhat. The adepts go quiet.

Simple music begins to play: single plucked notes of a harp, low and gentle. The heavy curtain draws back and revealed are—Audette, kneeling in a blush-pink robe on the left side of the stage, and Victor attired the same and in the same pose to the right. The harp plays its lowest note and there's a pause while it hums in the air, and then they each lift their heads and stand, in unison. They walk to each other, moving slow and purposeful, and when they meet the harp emits a rich trill and Victor smiles, breaking like dawn over his pretty face. Audette smiles back, reaching up to cup his jaw, her hands pale and delicate on his darker skin, and then he leans down and kisses her, precise and beautiful.

Jared breathes in deeply, his hands clutched together in his lap. They're so lovely together. Victor is very tall, his hair cropped close to his head in its tight curls, and Audette has to tilt her head back to meet his kiss, her eyes fluttering closed when he presses her mouth open with his tongue. He runs his hands through the long fall of her amber-honey curls, gathering them around her face like a cloud, and then pulls back to press one kiss against the long white column of her throat. She gasps, then laughs softly, and he's smiling when he stands back up to his full height. He moves his hands to the sash of her robe and it drops so smoothly, slithering backward off her narrow shoulders in a river of silk so she's left bare to the warm air, her skin fairly glowing peach-and-cream in the candlelight. She releases his robe, as well, and naked together they're a study of contrasts—he dark and she light, his firm muscle next to her softness. They were chosen perfectly as the Pair, for this Showing.

Victor takes Audette's hands and they move together toward the center, the harp's music growing more complex behind them. Audette urges Victor down to the wide plush cushions and he lays back with utmost grace, she kneeling between his just-spread legs. She draws her fingertips gently down the broad span of his chest, over his stomach, over his hips and down his strong thighs, and then she gathers his cock between her two hands, bowing over it and breathing out over the shaft. He shudders, his fingers touching the crown of her head, and she smiles before she opens her mouth over it and slides down with perfect ease. Jared's face goes flaming hot even as Victor lets out a soft groan, his head tipping back with pleasure. Kneeling close as he is, Jared can see the wet darkness of his cock moving gently in her mouth, her cheeks hollowing, her own eyes closing as she makes a soft noise, the color rising over her high cheekbones. When at last she pulls away, her hands braced on his thighs, his cock is fully-hard, rising high and proud from his hips, gleaming with her effort. Victor looks back down his body and offers her both his hands and Audette slides up, her breasts brushing lightly over his stomach, his chest, until he meets her mouth with his own, kissing her deeply, burying his hands once again in the rich weight of her hair, caressing her like she is something precious—and then his hands urge her closer, higher, until she is knelt up, braced on either side of his head, and he rises on his elbows and puts his mouth between her thighs and she cries out, her hips surging, hands cupping her own breasts. Jared can't see what he's doing well but Audette flushes, the blood rushing under her skin, her face tipped up to the candlelight and her mouth open on constant moaning sighs. Beneath her Victor is arched tight, his wet cock brushing his belly, and it's only when Audette again cries out that he pulls back, his hands clutching her hips, and she shudders for a moment before she relaxes, looking down at him.

A drumbeat begins to accompany the harp, a skittering soft thumping to accompany the rich trills. Victor catches Audette's narrow waist and twists elegantly, laying her on her back on the cushions. She spreads her legs, making a cradle for him to lay himself into, and he drags his hands from her belly to her breasts to her face, cupping it worshipfully between his hands before he braces them on either side of her head, leaning in to kiss her, softly, just once. The drum pauses, the harp letting out one last high note. The watching adepts are silent, Jared's heart thundering in his chest. With a surge, Victor pushes in and Audette lets out a rich groan, a deeper noise than Jared has ever heard a woman make—and then the drum beats again when Victor begins to thrust, his hips working a sinuous flexing rhythm against hers, the muscle in his back and buttocks and thighs clenching and releasing. Audette cups her palms over his neck, rubs her thumbs over the high angle of his jaw, her hips rising in perfect counterpoint to meet him.

Jared's breath comes quickly, the arousal pouring forth from them both lighting up his blood. This is unlike anything he thought it would be. He knew the basic mechanics of how two bodies meet; he'd grown up hearing gossip from adepts and servants alike. Sometimes the adults made it sound—vulgar, tawdry. Victor shifts his weight to one hand and slides the other down to cup Audette's breast, his fingers playing gently over her budded-tight nipple, and when she gasps and surges against him he smiles, the expression heartbreakingly sweet, and though the blood pricks hotly in Jared's cheeks he smiles, too, because this is… lovemaking. Beauty, like he'd always hoped. The harp thrums, the notes coming quicker, and so too does Victor increase his pace, leaning forward into the welcoming altar of Audette's embrace, her knees rising high around his hips, her arms twining around his neck. He bends his forehead to meet hers, their eyes closed and their parted lips separated by barely a breath, and Jared can't help but hear Noemie's voice, murmuring close—flesh, and blood, and the soul's exquisite grace, a ritual of love and desire given in homage of Naamah. The drum beats harder, matching Victor's pace, louder and louder and louder so that it matches the thunder of Jared's pulse in his ears until finally Audette's face changes and she cries out, her hands fisting and her hips flinching hard, and Victor pushes in just twice more before he groans, deep in his chest, holding still and tight against her, clutching her close, until finally he relaxes, his hips working gently to push inside her, soft, the tension bleeding away from his shoulders and her fingers trailing soothingly against the corded muscle of his arms.

The drum softens, a slowing pulse. The harp gentles, too, the song losing complexity while they gently embrace, when Audette tips Victor's face up and he kisses her once more. She lets her foot slide over his calf, and when their kiss breaks he puts one hand to her face, brushes her nose with his, and she lets out a rich, satisfied laugh, while the harp reduces once again to single notes, the space between widening more and more until, at last, the music stops.

The curtain draws closed. Jared closes his eyes, the beauty of their joining still bright in his mind. Heat has risen between his thighs and he's made—very aware, of his own genitals, of his belly and fingertips and lips. Rustling, around him, while the adepts stand and move away, in ones and twos, their conversation hushed in deference of the ritual they've just witnessed. At last, he hears his name, spoken gently. He has no choice but to open his eyes again. Félicie, in her splendid sky-blue gown as fits the occasion, smiling at him.

He's taken to the Dowayne's nearby office, though Martin isn't there. Félicie directs him with a nod to the settee under the window and he sits, flushed, while she moves to the sideboard opposite. She returns with two glasses of sweet cordial and sits beside him, watching until he takes a swallow, the alcohol burning warm down his throat to his already-hot stomach.

"Was it what you hoped?" she asks, after a moment.

Jared puts a hand to his face, too jumbled inside to feel embarrassed over his blush. "Yes," he says, his voice coming out faint. She tilts her head and he swallows, puts more strength to it. "Yes. Everything I hoped and more."

Félicie smiles and takes a sip of her own cordial, relaxing back against the settee's arm. She looks up, out of the window, where night has fallen over the City, stars glinting outside the house's circle of light. "Your instruction will begin tomorrow," she says, after a moment. In the gentle lamplight her eyes are dark, her hair burnished to russet. He's aware of her in a new way, now, and her smile has a curve which says she knows it. He takes another sip of cordial, to cover his discomposure, and she lets out a soft laugh, leaning forward to cup his cheek. "You will charm your patrons to their knees, dearest," she says, eyes crinkling. She tips up his face, then, and kisses his mouth, her lips soft and tasting of sweet dark berries. He gasps, can't help it, and she laughs again, kissing his cheek before she pulls back. "Run along, now," she says, relaxing again into the settee. "The house may be worshiping Naamah, but you're still a child, for tonight. Be merry, little flower."

He leaves the last of the cordial on the side table. His lips are warm, his limbs almost weak with want for—something. The door to the office closes behind him and he faces the bright hall, the adepts grouped together in twos and threes, some in conversation but some closer. Marcus is seated at the long table, leaned back against it with Richard straddling his lap, Richard leaning down and murmuring into Marcus's ear, making him laugh. Marcus's hands cupping the sweet swell of Richard's buttocks and squeezing, intent. Jared closes his eyes, just for a moment. He has an image, now, of what he wants, and for a second he tastes honey so strongly on his tongue that his mouth floods and he has to swallow.

"Sweet boy!" he hears, and when he opens his eyes—there is Phoebe, and Percy, and they both descend on him and lay kisses all over his cheeks and hair, so that he squirms and giggles, batting at their tight embrace. The tension in him eases, at least for the moment, and they draw him over to the huge settee below the curving stair, sit on either side and demand to know what he thought of the Showing, their eyes dancing and their intent kind, and he laughs, submits to it. He'll have time to think later, in bed. Tonight, at long last dedicated to his goddess and initiated into her mystery, he will celebrate.

*

As promised, his training begins the next morning.

Richard meets him in the blue sitting room, gentle light streaming in through the gauzy curtains. "You need to understand something about your training, dear," he says, over cups of tea fragrant with jasmine. Jared sits up straight, practically humming with attention. Richard smiles at him, over the thin china rim of his cup. "In Orchis House, the standards of behavior are—somewhat more lax than in other houses. Are you aware of that?"

Jared cups his tea between his palms. "Yes," he says, drawing it out as he thinks. "Dahlia would require haughtiness and pride, and Alyssum shy modesty, and Camellia strictly perfect decorum. Is that right?"

Richard nods, crossing one leg over the other. "Very good, yes. Orchis—much like Eglantine, in a way—encourages a bit more… individual expression. Of course, our canon is joy, but we allow any expression of that, do we not?"

Marcus's simplicity; Percy's sarcasm; Richard's warmth. Jared nods and earns another smile. "Very good, dear," Richard says. "Now. Of course, judging the desires of a patron comes with experience, and I and the others will do everything we can to aid you before your virgin-fete, but in some ways you will be on your own that night. What we can do is train you in Naamah's arts." Richard nods to the table before the unlit fireplace, and Jared follows his eyes to see a pile of books stacked upon it—thick tomes, bound in leather and clearly well-used. With Richard's permission he leaves his tea aside and goes to his knees before the table, tugging the books toward himself.

 _Trois Mille Joies_ , says the one on top of the stack, the letters barely legible in flaking gold leaf; the one below, even more battered: _The Ecstatica._ There's half a dozen more, of varying age and thickness, the pages much-marked and ruffled. Jared splays his hands over the cover of one called _The Journey of Naamah_ , looking up at Richard with some confusion.

"Every adept serves Naamah in their own way, I've told you," Richard says, his slender finger tracing the rim of his teacup. "But in this we expect perfection. This is what separates a courtesan of the Court of Night-Blooming Flowers from a common prostitute of the street. You may not use every skill with every patron, and there are some who will want nothing but simplicity—but you will know the steps of every variation of the dance, every method of arousement, the way you can play a body like a lute. You will be an artisan, Jared. I expect you to know your art to the last detail."

Jared swallows, nodding, and Richard's mouth curves again. "Good," he says, softly.

The door opens, then, and Percy enters, clad only in a dressing-gown with his hair bound artlessly over one shoulder. "Am I late?" he says, yawning.

"Only by the length of a speech," Richard says, with a wink at Jared that startles him into grinning. Richard gestures and Jared retakes his seat in the armchair, perched on the edge attentively. Another gesture has Percy shrugging out of his dressing gown, tossing it casually over the settee behind them, so that he's left naked to the morning light.

Jared blinks, while Percy shivers a little. "At least it's summer," he says, shifting his weight onto one hip. He's waxed of hair everywhere below the neck, his body slender, his cock peachy-pink, just a little larger than Richard's when it's soft.

Richard shakes his head, then drains the last sip of his tea and stands. "All right, pay close attention, dear," he says, turning to Jared. "The texts are very informative, and we'll go through every page, but we start with this." He taps Percy on the shoulder and Percy stands up straight, looking forward and relaxing. Richard kisses his shoulder, absently, and then picks up his lax right hand, turning it palm up toward Jared. "Here," Richard says, pointing, "the first line of arousement, on the middle finger as it traces back toward the palm," and Jared leans in close and drinks in the information, ready and eager to learn every single thing he can.

There is so much to learn. He has lessons every day—often with Richard, but all of the more experienced adepts step in when needed, Victor and Audette and Mathilde and Yves, each of them with years and years of serving behind them and instinctive knowledge they try to impart. Anatomy, first, with the help of Percy and Marcus as models: learning the names of every single part of the body, in d'Angeline but also in Caerdicci and Cruithne—and then in the slang of the streets, vulgarities and charming nicknames alike, so that Jared can model his speech by whatever the patron might prefer. He strips naked in his room, when Gemma is fast asleep, and by candlelight he names them to himself— _pectoral_ or _chest_ or _breast_ or _tit_ , _stomach_ or _belly_ or even _tummy,_ if the patron wants to indulge in fetishizing youth. He splays his hand over it, dipping his thumb into his navel. The _Trois Mille Joies_ devotes a full third of the text to the arousement, the methods of heightening the blood before the genitals are even touched. He's read the section over and over again and so he knows that a line traced featherlight from the navel up to the sternum will—ah, yes, the blood rises in his cheeks and his nipples pull tight, gooseflesh shivering over his chest. He closes his eyes, lets the feeling ripple through him.

It was another long talk with Richard, this one more serious. "You will practice some of this on yourself, of course," Richard said, as though it was a conclusion long forgone. "And we will move to practical demonstrations in the bedchamber, when it's time." Jared blushed, of course, and Richard cupped his face over the heat of it, made sure Jared was looking at him. "If it has not happened already, then your cock will begin to stir, soon. You're of the age for it. You are bound by your contract with the house to reserve your virginity until your sixteenth birthday, and we expect you to honor that. What you might do on your own time outside of that, within reason, is your own business. There is no shame in it—just be thoughtful."

Now, his slips his hands lower, bracing them on his own hips, framing his flushed cock, his sac. The want is singing low and insistent under his skin, his flesh calling for something—and he knows he could give it, one way or another. He pulls his hands, back, wraps his arms around himself and breathes slow, deep, calming. Not yet.

*

Rain sifts gently over the City, warmly pattering on the carriage as Jared and Thierry ride the short distance down Mont Nuit to Eglantine. Jared wanted to walk; Thierry turned a solemn look to his pretty new doublet and ordered a coach. Splashing through puddles might have been a nice distraction, was all Jared had been thinking, but of course—it wouldn't do to arrive sopping and bedraggled to their sister-house, and now that he is an apprentice in his own right he must bear himself even more thoughtfully. Lucky that Thierry has the right mind for that sort of thing.

The wheels spray water through the courtyard and Eglantine's footman, a new boy who's barely older than Jared, hands him down under an umbrella and lets him into the house. Thierry goes off to the kitchen right away, and Jared's about to head up to Jensen's room, a small knot formed in his belly, when Lilia bounds into the foyer, dressed in boys' clothes as always. "You're here, finally," she says, twining the long black mess of her hair on top of her head. "Daphne and everyone are in the south gallery, she sent me to tell you."

"Thank you," Jared says, trying to be polite. Lilia rolls her eyes and then, when he passes, darts in and tugs his braid, hard, back-springing away before he can retaliate. She grins at him and then trots away, out into the west corridors, and Jared breathes in deep. She's a _horrible_ tease, but he's being good and he won't chase after her, or find a pot of flour from the kitchen to pour down her stolen breeches. Much as he might wish otherwise.

He's so distracted by Lilia that he almost forgets to be nervous—but then, of course, he comes into the south gallery and finds Denis and Daphne and some new adept waiting in the sitting area before the cold hearth, and there's Jensen, too. His stomach flinches, when Jensen picks up his head and looks at him, but Jared smiles, putting on his best cheery look, and Jensen smiles back even if it's close-lipped and small.

"Here at last," Daphne says, looking up from her book. "We're working on a new production and we need a third. Jared, you'll take the shepherd's part."

Brisk, as always, though Jared's learned not to take it as dismissive. The new adept, a pretty girl of perhaps nineteen with rich chestnut hair and freckles a bit darker than Jensen's, smiles abstractedly at Jared but turns back to her script, her lips moving as she reads. Denis rolls his eyes and comes over, slinging an arm around Jared's neck. "I hear we have a newly dedicated Servant of Naamah among us," he says, leaning in close and conspiratorial.

Jared grins, can't help it. "Yes, just a few weeks ago," he says, his heart fluttering just at the fact that it can be said truly, and not only in his dreams.

Denis pinches his cheek, drops a kiss on his head. "Good," he says, simply enough. "Now we can tell you all our secrets and not sully precious innocent ears, can't we?"

That last directed perhaps at the girl, but certainly at Jensen, and Jared licks his lips, finally looking Jensen's way.

It's not—disappointment, at least, but Jared finds it hard to read his expression more deeply than that. "Crass as always," Jensen says, dry in that way he has. He glances into Jared's eyes and then looks down at the script. "My assignations will stay in the bedchamber, not spread about the halls and gardens and halfway down Mont Nuit."

"Be dull if you must," Denis says, airy. He drops down onto the settee next to the hearth and sprawls out, comfortable and confident as always. Jared hopes for half of his ease, once he's older. He sends a broad white smile to Jared, eyes crinkling. "Talk of me in the bedchambers of players and innkeepers only makes the legend of Denis Bernard grow."

"Attention," Daphne cuts in, closing her book. She stands and paces to the window, the skirt swishing around her ankles barely audible over the rain on the roof. "We will go through the second act, there's something that isn't working in the third scene."

The girl is called Bijou and Jared sees that, even if her beauty isn't as exquisite as some of the adepts he's seen, her skill at acting is remarkable. She's a match to Denis, or better, her features transforming with immediate natural emotion as the script requires. She is the young kidnapped comtesse to Denis' bandit, Jared the shepherd who interferes with the criminal's plot. It's a silly little play, mostly absurd contrivance and innuendo, and Jared's surprised to learn that it was written entirely by Daphne. They work through the second act, as requested, and he enjoys playing his shepherd part first shocked, and then afraid, or simple, or solemn, stealing from Thierry's working face. He makes Denis laugh aloud with his reading of the line _But my lady, why has your gown disappeared?_ , and when he carefully glances over—Jensen is smiling, too, even as he marks up his copy of the script. Something relaxes, slowly, in Jared's belly.

They run through the act again, and then back to the introduction scene in which Bijou is 'kidnapped' by Denis, he picking her up bodily and declaiming a monologue while she batters ineffectively at his shoulders and then slumps, bored and ridiculous, waiting for him to finish. Jared's character won't appear until later and so he gets to just sit and watch, laughing as Bijou begins picking irritably at her fingernails while Denis goes on and on about his prowess. When he looks Jensen is just sitting and watching, arms folded loosely over his chest, and when he catches Jared's eye he smiles, no shadow to it at all.

The rain hasn't stopped by the time Daphne releases them, and so they walk through the galleries instead, watching the water spattering the glass. Jensen pauses in the east gallery, where they first met again, and leans into the alcove of one of the great floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out. Jared watches him, fiddling with the end of his braid.

Finally, Jensen sighs, and glances over at Jared with a rueful tilt to his lips. "I can't remember a time it was ever uncomfortable between us, can you?"

It surprises Jared into a little laughter. "No," he says, ducking his head. "I can't."

Jensen turns and leans back into the wooden frame of the alcove, his arms folded again over his chest. His mouth is still compressed with faint regret. In the clear grey light his eyes are exquisitely green, the gold faded away so they're the color of glass, and Jared takes a deep breath, even as Jensen's mouth quirks a little. "Come on, then," he says, at last. He sits in the window seat and arranges the plush cushions so there's room for Jared, too, and then holds out his hand. "Come and tell me about your dedication," he says, and the apology in it is clear. Jared takes his hand and Jensen smiles, if only briefly, and then Jared finds his place tucked up close against Jensen's side, Jensen's arm around him again, where it belongs. He rests his head against Jensen's shoulder, closing his eyes with relief. Jensen says, quiet, his voice warm and close, "I want to hear every detail," and that's a lie, but it makes Jared find his hand and squeeze it, anyway.

*

Jared lights the candle in the censer and closes the little door. Richard has started his dressing by himself, in the inner chamber. "What scent tonight, dear?" he calls out.

"Jasmine," Jared says, and grins when he hears Richard laugh. He comes into the bathing room to find Richard already in his shirt and stockings, his hair a lustrous black tumble against the soft grey silk. "Your favorite, isn't it?"

Richard smiles at him in the mirror. "You know it is." He gestures and Jared brings over the suit for the evening—dark grey, almost somber if it weren't for the cunning traces of blush-pink embroidery peeking through at the cuffs and collar, and if it weren't for the cut of it. Richard steps into the breeches, lacing them tight, and then Jared helps him into the doublet. It's cold at night, now, but the hearth will be blazing at the fete, and so it will be warm enough for this; Jared gathers up the concealed ribbons under the shirt and peels it apart, the back splitting cunningly with the doublet so that Richard's marque is fully exposed. A tuck and fold, while Jared slips the ribbons through the breeches' darts, and then the points are tied securely so that the ensemble looks modest. From the front, at least.

"Fabre and Boisvert may attend tonight, I hear," Richard says. He adjusts the collar of the doublet, ensuring that just the right amount of silk shirt peeks from below. "They're known for large and boisterous retinues, and splashy spending."

"Do you favor either?" Jared buttons closed the small strip of the doublet remaining so that it sits under the dimples at the lowest point of Richard's back, a full frame around his creamy skin, then pats him gently on the shoulder so he knows it's done.

Richard sits at the vanity, turning his head back and forth. "Boisvert is pleasing in the bedchamber," he says, a little distantly. "A smallish cock, but he wields it well."

In the mirror Jared's face colors, immediately, but he's a bit more used to this, now. Since his dedication, the adepts are freer in their talk with him, no longer proscribed by the Court's dictates.

"Fabre is more generous with his patron gifts, but his moods push him more often toward female adepts," Richard continues. He licks his lips and purses them in the mirror, lids going heavy for a moment in playacted desire, before he blinks and straightens, his eyes meeting Jared's in the mirror. "A chignon tonight, dear," he says, mouth quirked. "With the seed-pearl pins. Perhaps my lord Michel will choose to take his pleasure with a boy as pretty as a girl."

When they're done, Jared can't see how the man could do anything less. He goes with Richard down to the staging area and privately thinks that Richard outshines every beauty there, though Cherette and Victor are also both looking particularly fine.

When Richard gets the nod from Félicie, he turns to Jared and touches under his chin, holds his face up to the light. "Lovely, dear," he murmurs, and Jared grins. Richard sighs at him. "Go to your place, spoiled thing."

Phoebe isn't attending tonight and so Laura is already in place at the doorway when Jared arrives. The musicians are already playing, harp and lute streaming through the curtain along with the murmur and laughter of the patrons. Laura looks him up and down, then says, "You have soot on your cheek," and Jared hurriedly scrubs even though she's already laughing, because he does fall for that _every_ time.

Before he can push her over the Dowayne arrives, regal tonight in a blue suit a dozen shades darker than his eyes. Jared and Laura bow and curtsy, respectively, and the Dowayne rests a hand briefly on Laura's head, smiling down at her. Jared tries not to be envious. "Very well, then," he says, almost under his breath, and so Jared sweeps the velvet curtain aside and the Dowayne steps out, and the fete begins.

It's a swirl of color, all gaiety and light. As Jared follows the Dowayne through the crowd of revelers, he sees that Richard was right—Fabre is here, tall and handsome, and Boisvert too with his short shock of copper hair, laughing hard at some jest Audette must have made. Félicie holds court with a group of gentlemen and ladies in the far corner, resplendent in her sky-blue gown, and she claps her hands when the Dowayne draws close, and gives her the kiss of greeting. They look well together, he with his tempered humor and she a gay flame. Jared and Laura wait just outside the circle of adults, quiet and watching.

"My lord L'Envers has taken a mistress, did you know?" one of the ladies says. Her too-heavy cosmetic doesn't hide the fading bloom of her youth, but her voice is rich and mirthful.

"What does my lady L'Envers think of that?" Félicie says, leaning forward in faux conspiracy.

"One can't imagine that she has unburied herself from her pile of boy-poets enough to notice," one of the men says, smirking behind his fan, and the group laughs.

The Dowayne smiles, then cuts his eyes to Félicie. She nods, almost imperceptibly, then takes the man by the elbow. "Dearest, have I introduced you yet to Percy?" she says, a force of warm amusement, and the man smiles down at her, says, "I simply cannot wait to be charmed, I'm sure," and she sweeps him across the floor to where Percy sits with a noble lady. Jared cannot hear what they say, this far off, but Percy stands and bows when the man arrives and the lady looks him up and down with pleasure, and Jared thinks, ah. Perhaps a shared assignation tonight, then.

The patrons' discussion continues, all light gossip of who is in love with who, and who is marrying who—not, as Jared has learned, always overlapping sets. The Dowayne glances at Laura, and then away, and she slips smoothly off, her rose livery dipping between and around gowns and suits. She returns with Marcus and Rose preceding her, and Rose cries out greeting to one of the ladies, with whom she is already a favorite. "Pardon me, I must attend—" the Dowayne murmurs, and the patrons smile and curtsy or bow, and then he is off to another group, Laura and Jared his shadows, to make more matches. As they pass, he sees that Félicie and Richard are now speaking with Michel Fabre, and Fabre's forefinger is tracing the light furrow of Richard's bare back even as he laughs with Félicie over something unheard. Richard catches Jared's eye and winks, his mouth curved generously, and Jared ducks his head to hide his wide grin. The chignon was a success, then.

Over the few months since his dedication, Jared has learned more of how his house works than in the previous thirteen years of his life. Roughly a dozen adepts are on the floor each night, entertaining perhaps thirty or forty guests, and not every patron thinks of an assignation each night. While it is their purpose as Servants of Naamah, that is not all the adepts are for. The business of Orchis House is to bring joy, and that is what Jared sees on the faces they pass.

Richard explained, the first night he was set to attend, as the seamstress tailored his livery to fit him precisely: his task was to assist the Dowayne, to follow his direction and aid in every respect, but also simply to soak in the atmosphere of the fete, to understand the house in a way that he didn't realize was impossible from the outside until he was in it. He learns to move gracefully through a crowd, to smoothly insinuate himself into conversation, to send silent signals to adepts and bring them where the Dowayne or Félicie wills. He learns to recognize familiar faces among the patrons, learns their preferences. Vailancourt, the chevalier from L'Agnace, laughs hardest at Rose's bawdiness in the evening, but he contracts more often with sweet Phoebe; Lady Irène likes male and female adepts alike, but her preference turns swiftly toward larger and larger muscles as she drinks more and more wine. While he learns, he is aware at all times that someone is watching—Richard and Félicie keep an eye out, of course, to ensure his good behavior, but the patrons don't ignore him, either. This is a part of growing up in the Court, he realizes now. Balm lets the children be seen in controlled circumstances, training them in gentleness; Eglantine allows the patrons to watch their apprentices at their art; in Orchis, though they must wait until they are dedicated, the apprentices are shown off every night. Patrons will stop Jared, sometimes, and ask for wine, or send him to request a song from the players, or simply to ask a question, and he does as he's asked, of course, and is aware that there's more at play.

He speaks about it with Laura, once, while they dine quickly with Eveline on a break in the fete. He's been too shy to bring it up with Richard.

"Of course they're watching, fool," she says, rolling her eyes. Eveline darts a look between them, her fork frozen halfway from her plate. "I'm eight months from my debut and already Phoebe has a list of who will take my virgin-price narrowed down to three."

Jared feels the heat rise in his face. The cooks are making their usual racket, running madly about the kitchen around them, even though Jared knows there's nothing more pressing than the usual hors d'oeuvres for the fete. "I wonder," he says, soft under the noise.

"Some patron is already waiting for your debut," Laura says, shaking her head like he's simple. Her compliments are often buried in her supremely irritating attitude, but he smiles at her for this one, anyway. The conversation then turns to other things, as Eveline asks about the patrons at the house tonight, and it's left to turn in his mind for another day.

*

It is late spring, two months before Laura's debut. In the garden, Jared and Eveline are going through the wedding announcements from the peerage, since she's so unfamiliar with the great families from having been raised outside the City of Elua, when there's a shout, from the courtyard, and a clamor, hooves striking the cobblestone and the clatter of wheels. "What's the matter?" Eveline says, but Jared's already moving toward the front of the house. He hops the low wall that separates the private garden from the arcade near the servant's entrance, and when he comes around to the courtyard he sees—

"Call the chirurgeon!" Amelia cries out, tears streaming down her face. There's a confusion of people and bodies, footmen and maids and a few of the adepts and strangers, too, and then the Dowayne comes out into the courtyard, his coat unbuttoned and his silver hair streaming out behind him. The crowd backs out of his way, and from his spot peering from behind a column Jared can see, at last: Phoebe, sprawled awkwardly in the back of the wagon, her hair unpinned into a golden mess around her head. She doesn't move, and when the Dowayne gestures to a footman to lift her out of the wagon bed she lays limply in his arms, her limbs slack. When the footman turns, Jared covers his mouth so he won't cry out. Her skirt is a rich brown, but her jacket is cream, and it has been lacerated, soaked to deep maroon all over her back.

The story comes out in fits and starts, gossip racing through the house so quickly that it takes time to sort the exaggeration from the truth. Phoebe and Amelia were out of the house for the afternoon, shopping for jewelry. Phoebe's horse startled—Jared never learns how, and Amelia is too much in a fit of grief to be asked—and took flight, while Phoebe struggled to hold on. A drover's cart, blocking part of the road. The horse's awkward jump. The wrought-iron fence dragged great lacerations through Phoebe's skin when she landed on it, though she was lucky not to be killed; the horse snapped its foreleg on landing, and had to be put out of its misery. Jared cries over both, when he's told.

An unaccustomed solemnity descends on the house. Amelia is distraught enough that she stops serving, as well; Rose and Cherette take the girls' places, making up the numbers for each evening. Patrons ask after them both, and Félicie's smile is perfect when she lightly says that they have taken ill, but _nothing serious, never fear, my lord_. Jared learns to make his face a mask. Laura isn't as successful and there are many times she has to turn away, trying to compose herself.

A month, and the chirurgeon returns to check Phoebe's wounds. The news isn't good.

"She's—flawed," Jared says, the next week. He draws his knees up under his chin, perched on Jensen's bed. It's raining, again, a hard April storm drenching the City. Seems only fitting.

Jensen frowns, shaking his head. "What do you mean?" He's sat at his desk, had been marking up a poem while they talked, but all his attention is suddenly fixed on Jared.

Jared blinks at him. "What do—" he starts, bewildered in his own turn, but then, of course. It happens so rarely. Phoebe is only the third that Jared has heard of, and Richard says it's only the second time it has happened at Orchis since he arrived. No wonder that Jensen doesn't know. He licks his lips and rests his cheek on his knee, eyes on his finger tracing infinity-loops in the bedspread. "Each house has a canon," he says, speaking slowly as he remembers how it was first explained to him. "But the Court has a canon that supersedes all others. We aren't prostitutes of the street, to tumble strangers for money; we are Servants of Naamah in the Court of Nightblooming Flowers, the finest practitioners of her art in all the world. Our bodies are vessels of that art, offered in homage to Naamah, and as such they must be… unmarred."

When he looks up, Jensen's expression is alarming. "Are you all right?" Jared asks, distracted, and Jensen cuts his hand through the air, asking immediately, "What's wrong with her?"

Three great gouges in the fine pale skin of Phoebe's back. One was healing well; the other two would not, the chirurgeon said, and would leave thick and ugly scars that nothing could cover, slashed through the nearly-finished pattern of her marque. "Flawed," Jared finishes, shrugging miserably. He never was particularly close with Phoebe, but she was always kind to him. "The house cannot let her serve Naamah, not like this."

Jensen stands and walks to the fireplace, bracing a hand against the mantle. After a long moment, he says, "Her marque. How is she meant to finish it, if she can't take patrons?"

Jared shakes his head again, though Jensen doesn't see it. "I don't know," he says, chest feeling tight. "The Dowayne must decide."

There's a long pause. Jensen turns and sits down directly on the rug before the fireplace, his eyes pinned to the floor. "I didn't know," he says, softly, like Jared's not even there.

Jared hugs his shins in lieu of hugging Jensen, and wishes there were something he could say, but there isn't. It is such a rarity to be cut off in the middle of the term of indenture that he doesn't know if there is a tradition in place. He imagines how Phoebe might earn money, in some other way than her art—has the absurd image of her washing pots with the scullery boy, and almost wants to cry again.

In the end, it is his grace, the Duke de Trevalion, who saves the day. Richard tells the story to Jared with some relief while they are readying for another evening—how the duke sent word ahead that he would contract with Phoebe on his next visit, and was informed of the accident with apologies from the Dowayne, and then it wasn't three days before the duke's seneschal arrived at the house to negotiate. Five hundred ducats, in the end; enough to make up the last inches of Phoebe's marque and to pay for her board at the house until she is well enough to travel.

"She will be a lady's maid and companion for the duchess," Laura says, at breakfast the next day. Her shock has faded and she is once again all practicality, though her pride from Phoebe's position has entirely gone. Jared wishes it hadn't, at least not for this reason. "The duke does not intend to make her a consort, but she may be a part of the household."

"Lucky," Jared says, and immediately wants to bite his tongue. Nothing about the situation has involved good luck.

Laura nods, though, worrying a bit of toast between nervous fingers. "Without a devoted patron, with deep pockets… I don't know what she would have done."

It sits in the back of Jared's mind, and in the minds of the house as well. Just a few days before Laura's debut, Phoebe whisks away in the early morning in a carriage from Trevalion. No great fete for her, not like Antoine was given. Amelia has resumed serving, though there is a bitter cast to her mouth at meals and she participates more rarely in conversation. Félicie supervises readying Laura for her debut, instead. Jared gets to see her before her introduction on the night of the fete, fully gowned and beautiful, waiting behind the screen at the top of the great staircase for the Dowayne. Dark hair a braided crown around her head, garnets to match her gown dangling from her ears, lips stained to a deep bitten red—he squeezes her hands and smiles at her. "May Naamah smile on you," he whispers, and she's startled into a wide happy smile, her eyes sparkling. It's the happiest he's seen her in a month.

Just a week after the debut, Jared, Eveline, and Gemma gather before Félicie in the solarium. "My lord the Dowayne and I have discussed much in the time since our recent misfortune," she announces, sitting upright on the chaise. She pats Gemma's cheek and squeezes Jared's hand. "We are responsible for training you, for teaching you to make your living, but more than that we are responsible for your well-being. We should prepare you as best we can for any situation you might meet, and do our best to ensure…" She trails off, shaking her head. It isn't often that Félicie's good humor falters. "You may refuse, if you are too frightened," she says, instead. "But I hope you will not."

So it is that Jared and the other children find themselves in riding lessons, once a week. They are taken down to a set of stables in the city, the first time Jared has ever been off of Mont Nuit—he and Gemma both peer excitedly through the carriage windows at the market stalls they pass, at the close narrow buildings, busy streets and unfamiliar faces. The grounds on which the stables sit are walled off from the city, too, but there is a small riding track circling the building around which the horses can be put through their paces, and on which the Dowayne has made a deal that the children will learn. The owner of the stable is a kindly older lady, Madame Perrin, who meets Félicie with the kiss of greeting on their first visit and who watches with a critical eye as her grooms carefully teach how to deal with the great tall beasts. Jared and Gemma are both learning on a brown mare with a white spot on her forehead, who moves gently and slow. She lipped curiously at Jared's hand when he held it out to be sniffed, and he fell in love that instant. "Holly is a sweet one," Madame Perrin said, patting her firmly on the neck. She pinched Jared on the cheek, smiling down. "Like you, hm?"

Laura and Percy attend a few of the lessons, too, both nervous but trying to make a good show of it. Eveline rode when she was small and living at the Temple, but only ever bareback, and so she is put with a livelier horse to learn how to navigate saddle and stirrups and reins. Jared tells Jensen about the lessons, in his next letter, and when they arrive at the stables the next week Jensen is there, in a fawn-colored day suit made dusty from the dirt of the track, trotting around quite capably on Eveline's palfrey. He waves hello when they pile out of the carriage and easily dismounts, sliding down to the ground to accept Jared's hug.

"What are you doing here?" Jared says, delighted.

Jensen has dirt on his cheek and smells strongly of horse, and he looks positively carefree, grinning down into Jared's face. "Madame Perrin gave permission for me to join you each week, if I wish," he says. He pats the palfrey on her neck and she snorts, peering around at the two of them. "I haven't been able to ride since—" He shakes his head, dismissing that, and then nods to where one of the grooms is leading Holly out. "So, will we be racing, then?"

"I think I would be left thoroughly in your dust," Jared says, and Jensen grins again, slinging an arm around his shoulders. Horse, yes, but also just—sweat, the rosehip smell of Eglantine's soap and any scent from his clothes washed entirely away. Jared takes a deep breath, turning his face in toward Jensen's body, and squeezes him back.

It's wonderful, having Jensen there. He doesn't come every week—while he has plenty of free time during the day as an adept, he does still have his writing and duties for Eglantine to be done. When he does come, he rides alongside Jared, or walks if Eveline is using the palfrey, and he doesn't ever supersede the groom's instructions or Madame Perrin's called-out commentary, but he stays close. It isn't only for his own entertainment, Jared soon realizes. He watches, makes sure Jared's horse isn't startled or spooked; when they ride together around the track, he keeps to the outside but so close that he could reach out and grab Jared, if needed. It makes Jared's heart clench in his chest, a sweet ache he's still not used to.

His other lessons continue. He has learned the steps of _languisement_ for men and women, though of course he is not allowed to practice on a real living body. In a bright bedroom he watches Marcus spread Esme's smooth brown thighs and open her wide, demonstrating the techniques as Richard narrates, a soft voice at Jared's side: the _caress of summer wind_ as Marcus breathes out hot against the mound of her sex, the _navigator's gambit_ as he drags a curled knuckle between her lips and smears her own wet up to her pearl of Naamah. Percy models as Cesare drags closed lips up the pretty pink side of his cock and Richard murmurs, _the virgin's kiss_ , but Jared's eyes are on Percy's face, slack and smiling with pleasure. He is allowed to practice on the house's implements: a model of the female sex in rosewood and buttery-soft leather which he works until his tongue is sore; a curved bronze phallus with a smooth ridged head, which Richard holds for him as he closes his eyes and struggles to let his throat accept the cool weight of it.

Jensen still doesn't like to answer questions Jared has about serving with patrons, always shy about discussing his assignations even though Jared is now allowed to know and discuss Naamah's arts. Jared tells him about his training, anyway, since it's most of what fills his life now and he has little else to share—and Jensen will talk about that, at least. They're riding the track one chilly afternoon, a light dust of snow on the ground but the sun peering weakly through the grey clouds overhead, and Jared is complaining about the difficulty of the _devotee's promise_. "I'm still hoarse," he says, rubbing his throat to demonstrate, and Jensen laughs, just a little.

"Just remember to breathe through your nose," he says, eyes on the track ahead of them, "and look straight up. You'll get over the choke response soon, don't worry."

Jared doubts it, privately, but Richard said the same thing and so he only huffs, hands gentle on Holly's reins. He's grateful for his cloak, with the day so cold. "A trot to finish?" he says, and Jensen tosses him a smile and nods, and so he carefully urges Holly faster, her big body moving smoothly under him. He's learned to compensate for the jostling, despite the strain on his thighs—though Richard says it's good for his form, so it's just as well, really. Jensen pulls a little ahead on the lighter palfrey, of course, but he's more confident of Jared's skills now and so they let it become a gentle race, one that Jared was always going to lose.

Gemma stayed home today, and Eveline is inside the house with Madame Perrin, no doubt drinking honeyed tea and hearing stories of when the Madame was a great adept of Bryony House in days long-by. Jensen wins their little race, of course, and Jared pulls Holly up beside him and sticks out his tongue. He gets a wink for his trouble, and then Jensen slides easily to the ground and gives the palfrey's reins to a waiting groom. He holds up his hands for Jared to get down, and Jared lets Jensen catch his weight and slides down, thrilling for a moment in the close easy play of their bodies, he still slight enough that Jensen can carry his weight—and then someone calls out, "Jensen? Jensen, it cannot be—is that you?"

Jensen whirls, his own cloak swirling forest-green around him. He's square in front of Jared and so Jared has to peek around his shoulder, tucked safe between him and Holly's calm solidity. There's a tall man leading a beautiful dappled filly, wrapped up warm in sturdy grey, frozen in the yard with the gates closing behind him. He's in his thirties, perhaps, and handsome with it, his hair a long honey braid over his shoulder. Jared frowns, something pulling at his memory.

The man tosses his reins to a waiting groom and strides across the forecourt, the speed of his gait whipping his cloak back enough that Jared can see the sword belted at his hip, the swan insignia embroidered into his doublet.

"Luc," Jensen breathes, and—oh.

Luc, who brought Jensen to the Night Court rather than send him to an orphanage. He holds out his hands as he comes close and Jensen lifts his own as though on strings, letting Luc catch and squeeze them tight in his gloved grip. Up close, Jared can see the finest of lines starting beside his eyes, carving into his cheeks as he smiles. He has aged well into his face. "I'm so glad to see you," Luc says, and he means it truly. "You look so well."

"And you," Jensen says, sounding almost dazed.

The groom comes to take Holly back to her warm stable and Jared is left awkwardly exposed, so he steps lightly to the side and back, trying to be unobtrusive. Luc's eyes dip to him for a moment, but they return immediately to Jensen, taking him in from head to toe. "Honore told me you were adopted into Eglantine House," Luc says. His voice, pleasant enough in timbre, still shakes as though he's seeing a vision. "I never thought to see you again. Please, tell me you're well."

Jensen smiles, looking up into Luc's face. Jensen is tall, now, nearly six feet, but Luc is still taller. "I am, truly," he says, and it's—honest, real. Not the voice Jared has heard Jensen put on when patrons stop to talk to them at Eglantine. Jared wraps his cloak more tightly around himself, ignored as they look at each other. "And you? Still a soldier, I see."

Luc glances down at his doublet, the Courcel swan glinting subtly in the thin light. "It's the only life I know," he says, and then looks back to Jensen, his expression turned just a trifle shy. "I've been promoted, only this week. I'm a lieutenant, now, commanding a platoon in the First Company that guards the City."

Jared has no idea what that means, but Jensen smiles. "No one could deserve it more," he says, warm.

That earns a helpless smile from Luc, his cheeks creasing sweetly as he looks down at the snowy ground. Jared licks his lips. The situation and the people involved couldn't be further from the great hall of Orchis House, but he sees what's building here.

Indeed—Luc says, a little awkward, "And you? You must be of age, now," and Jensen's lips part, his chest rises in a deep breath, and after a pause he says, "I am," his voice just a little deeper, soft.

They haven't released each other's grip and Jared watches Luc smooth his thumb over the back of Jensen's hand, the leather dark against his freckled-pale skin. "I'm sure your patrons are the toast of the City," Luc says, the jest weak.

Jensen turns his hand over, smoothly, and laces his fingers with Luc's. Luc looks up, startled, and Jensen doesn't smile, really, but his face is open as he says, "Not all," and then, looking down at their twined hands: "Not the ones I like best."

Tension, drawing the air between them to a heat Jared has only seen from the outside. Luc's eyes linger on Jensen's downturned face and they are dark, below his lashes, his body tuned to Jensen's like a singing fork.

"Boys!" comes a cry, and Luc releases Jensen's hands as though he were caught at something. Madame Perrin stands in the door to the house, her furs drawn about her as though like armor, Eveline peeking curiously out behind her bulk. "Come, the tea is going cold, and you must be going, soon."

A glance at the sky says that, yes, the day is drawing into afternoon and Thierry will return soon with the coach. Jensen tucks a stray lock of hair behind his ear. He's rumpled with their day of riding, sweaty and dirty, and Luc looks at him like a man starved. "You live in the City, now?" Jensen says, and Luc nods. Jensen looks back and forth between his eyes, and then turns and stretches out his hand for Jared's. Jared gives it and Luc glances at him as Jensen pulls him close, but his eyes go right back to Jensen's face. "I hope I will see you soon, then," Jensen says, with a polite bow of his head.

"I hope the same," Luc says, almost breathless, and he watches them go as Jensen walks them across the forecourt to the house, their steps crunching beneath them. Jensen's body is tense, warm, and Jared slips his arm around his back underneath his cloak. He looks back, before the door closes. Luc stands alone in the empty yard, watching with naked yearning, even when Jensen can no longer be seen.

*

In his lessons, Jared is studying _The Journey of Naamah_ , Richard helping him to extrapolate concrete details from the parables of the goddess. The art of judging a patron's desires, their needs, is more intricate by far than the arts of the bedchamber. With Laura and Percy, he trains in dancing, learning by heart the steps of the gavotte and the allemande and the passepied, learning how to lead and how to follow, watching the eyes and hands and the shifts of weight in his partners. Still following the dance, there are the ways to gently tease up arousal and desire—and ways to cool it, too, to make even intimate closeness unfraught, ardor deflected. Jared spins Percy about the empty great hall, Cherette plucking out a simple song on the lyre for them to follow, and slowly he learns how to gauge the silent voice of the body, words never needed.

February brings with it Gemma's tenth birthday, and a surprise: she will not be joined to the house. Jared tells Jensen the story over a game of chess in the north sitting room, a gentle snow sifting over the grounds outside the window. Félicie had seemed a trifle disappointed when she told Richard over tea, Jared studying his texts in the background, but Gemma had listened to Eveline's stories of growing up at the Great Temple, of how her father and the other priests and priestesses served Naamah there, and Gemma had informed her mother that she would very much like to be one of them.

"What did Félicie say?" Jensen says. He's studying the board with a furrowed brow. He learned the rudiments of the game at Eglantine, but he says he doesn't have the mind for it. It's an indulgence that he plays with Jared.

Jared pulls one of his heels up onto his chair, hugging his shin close to his chest. "She told Richard that she and Gemma spoke with Noemie for hours, so that Gemma could ask all the questions she wanted. She hoped secretly that somehow Gem would change her mind, but she just seemed more excited. She'll go north to Namarre when the weather turns a little warmer to begin her apprenticeship."

Jensen hums, low, and finally moves—the queen's side knight, taking one of Jared's exposed pawns. Jared hides a smile in his knee, and pretends to think about his next move for a moment before his bishop crosses the board and takes Jensen's piece. Jensen sighs, but Jared doesn't think he's too aggrieved. "Was she born of the house, or is she Félicie's own?" he says, drumming his fingers on the table.

It took Jared a long while to figure that out, himself. If a child is born of a love-match by an adept with a completed marque, then the child belongs wholly to their parents, and if they grow up inside the house then the parents need only pay back the cost of room and board. If still bound by their term of indenture, however, then a female adept could only accept Eisheth's blessing to become able to bear children with the permission of their Dowayne, and the Dowayne would have a stake in the child born to the house—and if that child did not become a full member of the house, then the indenture would need to be repaid, one way or another. In this case, at least, "She was Félicie's," Jared says, planning moves for what he judges Jensen might do next. If he's right, then the game will be over in roughly sixteen moves. "Though I never have heard who the father might be—an old patron, maybe. I will miss Gemma, though. She's a sweetheart."

Jensen hums, again, and moves—what? His king's side bishop, to a spot of no strategic importance at all. Jared's plan crumbles behind his eyes and he squints at the board, trying to gauge Jensen's thinking. His hand moves to his queen, and then he hesitates, looking up at Jensen's face—who's now looking out the window at the snow, not paying attention to the board at all. "Jensen," he says, and Jensen starts, dragging his eyes back almost guiltily. Jared sighs, and lets his leg drop back to the floor. "We don't need to play, if you don't want to."

"I do," Jensen says, shaking his head and sitting upright. He smiles at Jared and it's honest, if rueful. "I'm sorry."

Jared raises his eyebrows. "You just left yourself open to losing in about three moves." He points to his queen, to Jensen's rook, to his own pawn, and then to where the king would be left trapped and exposed, almost immediately. Jensen follows, apparently, because he slumps back into his armchair, looking aggrieved enough that Jared laughs. "You're not _that_ bad, I know it."

"Kind of you to acknowledge," Jensen says, dry. He rests his elbow on the arm of his chair, running his fingers restlessly over the line of his brow, and his gaze shifts to the distance. "I'm distracted."

"I would never have guessed," Jared says solemnly, and Jensen rolls his eyes. "What's the matter?"

"There's no—matter," Jensen says, but he pushes to his feet and paces over to the mantle to stare into the cheerfully flickering fire, and by Elua he is a truly terrible liar, at least when it's just the two of them. Jared stays quiet, playing Jensen's lost knight between his palms, and eventually Jensen glances back at him and cracks, as Jared knew he would. "Luc came to see me," he says, and Jared closes his fist around the marble piece.

Jensen never speaks of his assignations, not without cause. Jared licks his lips. "He made a contract?" he says, and Jensen nods, looking at the floor. He's flushed, just a little along his cheekbones, and Jared's mind cruelly recalls how Jensen had stared into Luc's eyes, how Luc stared right back, his smile handsome and crooked, his hands big and gentle on Jensen's. Imagination so easily provides Luc waiting breathless on Jensen's small tumbled bed while Jensen undresses before him, bare honey skin bathed warm in the firelight. Jared swallows. "I'm surprised he could afford it," he says, and even to his own ears his voice sounds strange.

He gets a surprised look at that, Jensen frowning just for a moment. "He was just promoted," he says, and waves a hand. "It's not his purse that—" He shakes his head, and covers his face with both hands. When he speaks from behind them he's a little muffled. "Luc spoke of—of me, of my skills, with some of his fellow officers in the company. He said they plied him with wine after they found out and demanded to know—details." He drops his hands and he's blushing, as flushed-red as Jared knows he still gets. He shakes his head again. "He's already written twice to apologize."

It would be funny—it is funny, really, except that Jensen's so deeply embarrassed. Jared would hate Luc for it, too, on principle, except that even from their so-brief meeting he knows that Luc cherished Jensen too much to betray his confidence willingly. He can admit that to himself, no matter what else he thinks. He passes his hand over his mouth, tries to make sure he's not smiling, before he says, "Has Denis stopped needling you yet?"

Jensen drops back into his armchair, staring down at the forgotten chessboard. "It's not that," he says. "Luc's superior, the commandant of the battalion, he apparently has a liking for poetry, and he was so—so impressed, at Luc's story, that he wrote to our Dowayne and now—there's to be a Showing." Jensen looks up, face still flushed with embarrassment. "I'm to perform."

There's a moment in which Jared almost doesn't understand. After it, his whole body flushes, the heat pooling in his center and unfurling, from his belly to his cheeks. He places the knight back in its place on the board, careful. "A Showing for the officer?" Jared says. His voice feels frail and he clears his throat. "He must be very important, or very wealthy."

"Both, I think," Jensen says. He runs his hand over his head, the hair that has escaped his queue falling messily around his face. "I've never—they usually choose the actors, if there's to be a Showing for patrons. I've never—"

"It's an honor," Jared says, and he does mean it truly, no matter what else he might be thinking. Showings are performed by the best of each house, for they are done in homage to Naamah before anything else. Jensen knows this, or at least should, but he's still fidgeting even if his blush has faded. He reaches across the table and catches Jensen's hand, squeezing it until Jensen meets his eyes. "You'll be amazing."

Jensen bends forward slowly and puts his forehead flat on the table, though he lets Jared keep his hand. "It is an honor," he repeats, muffled. Jared rubs his thumb over the smooth bumps of Jensen's knuckles, and closes his eyes. Jensen's nervous, and worried, and Jared is his best friend and should be nothing but supportive. He is, he's trying to be. It's only that he also knows that, even in another house, Showings are open to all of Naamah's servants.

*

Jensen's birthday has passed and March is subsiding gently toward April with soft spring rain, the trees all budding and new flowers peeking forth from the ground. Jared dresses with care, braiding his hair into the tail over his shoulder as he prefers; his best doublet in the deep blue Richard likes him in, fawn breeches, his boots polished to a high sheen. He swings his cloak over his shoulders and takes a deep breath, looking at himself in the mirror. He can't pass for older, not yet—his growth has come on slow, and he's still slight—but he at least looks like a true member of the Night Court.

Thierry has called the carriage, with the rain coming down. When Jared meets him in the hall he looks Jared up and down and raises his eyebrows. "Very fine, young master," he says, and Jared smiles instantly, ducking his head just a little. Thierry doesn't bother with flattery or lying, at least not with him.

The ride to Eglantine is as short as ever but Thierry doesn't chatter, and so with just the pattering on the carriage-roof and the clatter of the wheels on cobblestone in his ears Jared has time to compose himself. He isn't—he isn't _lying_ to anyone. He was meant to come to Eglantine, as he always does, for his lessons with Daphne. At riding lessons a few weeks ago, Jensen mentioned the date of the Showing when Jared asked how the preparations were going, and when Jared came home to Orchis—well, it was easy enough to suggest the date as his next trip to Eglantine. His lessons there have become routine enough that no one questioned it.

Eglantine's footman hands Jared down out of the carriage and into the foyer; the page immediately runs for Daphne, recognizing Jared by now. Jared swallows, but puts a hand on Thierry's elbow before he can disappear off to the kitchen. "I'll be staying late tonight, to watch a performance," Jared says, keeping his voice light. "May I send the page for you when it's over?"

Thierry frowns, for a moment. Orchis is closed to guests tonight, for which coincidence Jared went down to his knees and thanked Naamah, and so Richard doesn't require his services and Thierry won't have his usual duties to perform. "All right, then," he says, slowly, and then Daphne appears in the east doorway. He bows and excuses himself, and Jared turns around, taking a deep breath.

"Come," Daphne says, turning immediately on her heel, and Jared scrambles to follow as smoothly as he can. They wind their way through the corridors back to the study where he first came to Eglantine, where Roxane and Félicie first made the deal that let him see Jensen. No fire, no lamps lit, so the room is full only of the grey rain-tinged light from outside, and Daphne is pale and austere in it as she turns and fixes Jared with her penetrating, assessing gaze. He finds the kneeling cushion and sinks to it _abeyante_. It isn't something Daphne has ever required, but at the moment he thinks every little bit helps.

"Jensen does not know you are here," she says, after a moment.

He blinks and looks up. "You didn't tell him?" he says, before he can bite it back.

Daphne ignores the redundancy, though she usually wouldn't. She sits on the settee before the cold fireplace, crossing one leg over the other under her grey silk skirt. Her eyes are dark in the dim light, fixed on Jared. "Have you seen a Showing, beyond the one for your initiation?" she says, instead. He shakes his head and she watches him for a moment, then looks out the window. "It is a coup for Jensen to be requested by the commandant. Gaspar de Mereliot is a minor cousin of the Lady of Marsilikos, and yet he is well-regarded in her majesty's army—both a decorated soldier and an intelligent, cultured member of the peerage. He has visited Eglantine House before, and my lord the Dowayne was eager to accept his request. It's very likely this will turn into an assignation for Jensen, and a favored patronage, if he's lucky."

Jared swallows. He cannot imagine the commandant—old or young, handsome or not. "Jensen said he—that he liked poetry?"

"He does," Daphne says, still looking out the window. The rain soughs against the house, a constant undertone to her calm, straightforward voice. "As do many of Jensen's other patrons. He has collected a few admirers, did you know? Impressive, for so short a career. You'll see many of them, tonight. Until then—" She stands and moves to the bookshelves at the far side of the room, pulling off a volume and bringing it to him. He takes it with both hands, but she keeps one finger on the cover, tapping it to keep his attention. "Read this today, while you wait. Pay particular attention to the third story; there are elements you could use for your acting. A servant will bring you luncheon."

He looks down at the cover, and sees that the author is René nó Eglantine—the current Dowayne, though this book is old enough that it must have been written when he was a practicing adept himself. He's curious, for Daphne never assigns work without reason, and he has already opened the book, settling more comfortably on his knees, when Daphne speaks again.

"Jared," she says, and he looks up to find her paused by the door, arms folded over her chest while she regards him. "I have not told Jensen, and will not. You are my pupil, too. Tonight, I want you to think. Consider, carefully, what you asked for, and what you learn. I will not do this again."

"Yes, Daphne," he says, bowing his head, and she leaves the room without another backward glance.

As instructed, he reads. The old Dowayne wrote beautifully—a spare, simple style, but the feeling burns clear in it. The third story, the one Daphne wanted him to focus on, is a tragedy, told in subtle strokes. The man loves the princess, the ardor in his heart clean and noble; though she has affection for him, her love for her country burns stronger, and she marries a foreign king in a political match that keeps the nation safe. Love thwarted, and at first Jared thinks that it is blasphemy—but as he sits and eats the simple luncheon a maid brought, and thinks harder on it, he reconsiders. _Would that I were Terre d'Ange,_ the man says, his heart breaking in his chest— _would that I were her rich fields and mountains, her rivers and shores, that you might see me, and hold me close in your heart, and love me best._ She does not, and cannot, and the man lives alone, to the end of his days.

A knock on the door rouses him from his rereading—the rain has stopped, sometime when he was paying no attention, and the sun has begun to set over the city. One of the pages, sent by Daphne, who sweeps a bow and asks Jared to follow. The Showing chamber in Eglantine is large, set at the very back of the house, the stage surrounded by tiers of seats and two grand chandeliers blazing with candlelight above it. Guests have already begun to gather when Jared arrives and he immediately lays claim to the worst spot to watch: the last row, as far to one side as possible. The room isn't enormous—only about half as large as the theater-room, if Jared estimates aright—but still, he doesn't want to be seen. Not really. He settles onto the kneeling cushion, watching the room behind shuttered eyelids, and waits. His heart is already pounding.

Patrons speak to each other in little groups, spread throughout while they wait for the Showing to begin. Ladies and gentlemen, both. Jensen's patrons would be here, from what Daphne said, and Jared doesn't know them but he wonders, all the same. Faolan Garneau, he does recognize; the man is speaking quietly to a lady of middle years, dressed with wealthy simplicity as when Jared last saw him. Roxane enters, resplendent in a gown of bright ochre with black pearls at her throat, and Jared shrinks further into his corner. There is a man with her, a patron by his looks, black hair and Kusheline colors, and it is a long minute before Jared remembers: Baptiste de Morhban, who had been at Balm so long ago. Roxane brings him across the room to an older man in the deep violet of House L'Envers, curtsying to them both, and de Morhban catches her hand and kisses it, lingering, a smirk hovering in the corner of his mouth. With his lessons, with what he knows now, Jared sees it as the tiny power-play that it is: his posturing, her pausing to allow it but not acceding. She disengages her hand smoothly and Jared cannot hear what she says over the murmur of the crowd's discussion, but de Morhban laughs, perfectly at ease, and turns easily to speak with the L'Envers lord. There are politics and patronages here, just as at Orchis, there must be, but Jared cannot see them. In truth, there is only one reason he's here.

The room is nearly full when the door swings open, one last time, and the crowd's murmuring hushes. An old man enters, white-haired and his skin fragile as crepe, wearing fine sage silk and—ah, the gold chain of office. The Dowayne, René nó Eglantine. Jared knew that he was elderly, but he hadn't realized how close he was to his end. Roxane comes to him and takes his arm, leading him slowly down the steps to the chairs in the very front row, he leaning hard on her bracing arm. She will be Dowayne, soon, Jared thinks. He sits in the center, and Roxane curtsies to him, and then to another man, who comes forward and leans over the Dowayne's hand to kiss it. This man wears a doublet in midnight blue, silver accents at cuffs and collar and a ceremonial sword belted at his hip—and when he takes the seat at the Dowayne's left, Jared knows this must be Gaspar de Mereliot. He is perhaps forty, but the years have settled kindly on him, his dark hair only barely touched by silver and his face barely lined, handsome when he smiles at something the Dowayne says. Jared wonders at him, this man who with a whim could make this event happen—but then Roxane claps her hands, twice, and takes the seat at the Dowayne's right side, and the guests and adepts of Eglantine settle into seats and onto cushions, respectfully falling silent, so that the Showing might begin.

Jared's breath comes too loud in the quiet and he bites his lips between his teeth, heedless of his lessons. Flute, high and sweet, skirling little flourishes in the empty silence. The curtain draws back, and there are three adepts on stage robed in cream silk, standing in a line with their heads bowed. Estelle the singer, Jared recognizes, and Amaury the tall haughty painter, and then—Jensen, his hair tucked behind his ears but left loose, and Jared has to consciously breathe in slow through his nose so that he won't make a noise.

The adepts disrobe one by one, while a harp joins the flute in its sweet bouncing song. First Estelle, her breasts and thighs heavy, her skin a smooth bronze; then Amaury, tanned and tall, his russet hair in a braid that reaches down to his buttocks; and then, Jensen. He's turned away from the audience and the robe slides slowly down the honey-pale of his back, revealing the still-short beginning of his marque, catching for a moment at his wrists before it drops, and then, there—the generous curve of his buttocks, his strong thighs, the long line of his legs. Estelle and Amaury turn toward him, catching him on either side and sliding graceful knowing hands up his arms, their fingers delicately skimming over his skin. Jared knows that, now—the _caress of spring_ , one of the simplest they learn, followed by the _worshiper's invitation_ as they find his jaw and lift it, gently. Their hands move in beautiful synchronicity, flowing through the steps of the arousement so elegantly that a patron could never guess at the hours of practice that made each seem as simple as instinct. Amaury and Estelle are both older, their marques completed, and Jensen looks young between them as first one, then the other, turns his face and takes kisses from his mouth. The audience can see his face only in profile, but even from his poor seat Jared can see the flush rising gently under Jensen's skin, the plush curve of his mouth pinking under their attention. Jared's hand lifts unthinking to his own lips, covering where his breath is coming faster, just at this.

Small bells join the flute and harp, each note rich and mellifluous as they radiate through the room. The adepts kiss, and caress, and move fluidly against and around each other, and Jensen is always at the center. Eventually they turn him so that he faces the audience and he's… stunning, flushed at cheekbones and throat, his flat soft chest rising quickly under the attention, and below, his cock stirring, pretty dark rose and the weight of it proportioned perfectly to his body. Jared sucks in a shaky breath, to see it. Amaury moves behind him, leaning down to kiss the broad pale line of his shoulders, and Estelle goes to her knees before him to begin the _languisement_. Jensen tosses his head back, a short moan leaving his parted lips, and the music pauses so they can all hear it, deep and true. In the front row, de Mereliot leans forward; Jared cannot blame him.

At the stage's center is placed a wide chaise, big enough for play. It is there they move to continue the _languisement_ , and Jared watches transfixed while Jensen puts his mouth between Estelle's widespread thighs, his eyes closed while his tongue works complex patterns—while he sits up and Amaury comes close, and Jensen bends his head to suck in the pale length of his cock, sinking down to the base with ease, moaning softly around the thickness of it when Amaury cards through the loose weight of his hair—when he looks up at last with dampened eyes and Amaury smiles at him, thumbs stroking with sweet care over the perfect line of Jensen's cheekbones. Not long, then, before Amaury urges Jensen off of him, leaning down to kiss the reddened wet parting of his mouth before he eases Jensen back, Estelle easily catching him against the welcoming curves of her body, so that Amaury can go down to both knees and part Jensen's thighs, push them up and up and then dip between them, licking deep enough there that Jensen gasps—and then Amaury lifts up, leans in, and Jensen's thighs wrap immediately over his waist, clenching high and eager, and then—oh, the push _in,_ and Jared doesn't see it because his eyes are fixed on Jensen's face, but he knows the instant it happens because there, there, the way his mouth parts, the heavy distracted cast to his eyes as he stares up into Amaury's face, the half-shocked grunt that leaves him. Not playacting, nor falsity, and not a sound Jared has heard in any of his training, from any other adept. That was Jensen. Amaury begins to thrust, steady and strong, and Estelle braces them both with her hands moving over Jensen's skin, the music beating faster and more complex, and they are beautiful together, the three of them, their limbs tangled, their skin standing out strikingly against the chaise's emerald velvet, but Jared's eyes are fixed only on one place.

Jensen's head turns, his eyes closed and his brow furrowed, his attention caught somewhere deep. Estelle and Amaury kiss over his shoulder, and Jared sees that she is pleasuring herself, too, the three of them racing together toward the same goal. The blood is beating through his own body at a furious pace, his eyes dry from hardly blinking. The Showing for his initiation was—a sacrament, beauty and grace. This is different, if only because it feels like his heart can hardly take it.

The end comes too-swiftly, no matter how much time has actually passed. Amaury leans back and picks up Jensen's hips, raises him into a new position, and Jensen cries out, high and strained, his hands caught in Estelle's grip and held above his head. He's rose-and-gold all over, his body gleaming, muscle drawn tight in his thighs and stomach and buttocks. Caught in the grasp of his pleasure, he's—a shock. Somehow more vivid, more real, the flesh and blood of him pulsing below Jared's skin. When he finds his climax it unfolds almost as a surprise—Amaury is still moving, Estelle's grip still firm, and Jensen's cock spills over his belly untouched, jerking urgently against his own skin twice and three times before he groans, loud and long and unvarnished, his body freezing to stillness between them. Jared's breath is stuck in his chest for a long moment before he gasps in air. He hardly notices when Estelle finishes, or Amaury. Blood has risen so high in his cheeks that he can feel his skin prickling, his stomach almost cramped with wanting. Jensen relaxes, slowly, the muscle in his thighs and stomach twitching as he comes down, and it is to slowing harp and the gentlest strikes of the bells that they kiss him, and each other, their bodies twining pale and gold and bronze together. When the curtain draws closed, the last thing Jared sees is Jensen's face, turned slightly away from the audience with his eyes shuttered, lax and satisfied.

There is no applause; there isn't, after a Showing. Jared kneels in his corner with his hands pressed to his face and tries to compose himself. He wanted this, so badly. Now that he has it, he hardly knows what to do.

The adepts and patrons begin to stand, and exit. Assignations will likely be made tonight. De Mereliot is leaning in to talk to the Dowayne, his expression pleased, and Jared thinks with a strange bolt of shock that—he will bed Jensen, this man. He stares, at de Mereliot's pleasant inoffensive face, and when he tears his eyes away they land on Garneau, watching him with a faint smile. Garneau nods to him, polite, and Jared blinks in pure befuddlement for a moment, all decorum gone from his mind, when suddenly Daphne appears, blocking his view of the room, beautiful in a gown of champagne-colored silk. "Up," she murmurs, but there is steel beneath her voice, and he raises up on quivering legs. She considers him, her eyes cool and assessing. "There is to be a reception, after, which you will not attend," she says, after a moment. "I will send a page to fetch your man, and a carriage will be waiting. Go home, Jared."

When she points, he goes, avoiding the gentle egress of the adults and making his way through the west corridors of the house. He reaches the foyer in a daze and sits, waiting for Thierry, his eyes closed. He wishes he could have that last moment cast in bronze, caught, never to be degraded by time.

"Master Jared," he hears, and there is Thierry, standing before him with his brow crumpled. "Is something amiss?"

Jared shakes his head, slowly. His chest is so tight and his heart so full he barely can speak, but he manages, "It's time to go," and he doesn't cry, but it's a near thing.

The night is cool, the air fresh and dewy with the day's rain. They clatter along in silence, passing other carriages, the boulevard alive with the business of the Night Court. Jared hasn't been out at night, before, and he stares out the carriage window in a tumble of thought. The gate at Orchis swings open immediately to them at the carriage-driver's hail and it's only a moment before Thierry is stepping down onto the wet cobblestones, turning to help Jared out in his turn.

"There you are," they hear, and Thierry stiffens and steps to one side with a bow, and there is Richard, wrapped up in his plum velvet cloak in the doorway. Jared blinks at him, doesn't know what to say. "Where have you been?"

"I—" The words won't come. His face still feels flame-hot, the world somehow shifted a step apart.

Richard's eyes go to Thierry. "He was meant to be home before dark," he starts, and Jared has never heard Richard's voice cold like this. "Did you lose your way?"

Thierry bows again, begins to murmur his apologies, and Jared must step forward, then. "It wasn't—I told him I was to stay," Jared says, stumbling. "It was—I wanted—please, it wasn't Thierry's fault."

A moment, where Richard studies his face with that same cold distance, and the weight of his disappointment is a blow. "You're dismissed," he says, finally, and his eyes dart only for a moment to Thierry. "Inside, now."

Jared follows Richard's slight form into the house, glancing over his shoulder to find Thierry frowning again. With the house closed to guests, no one is lingering in the great hall, and he follows Richard quietly into the rear corridors, up the stairs and to Richard's own room, where the fireplace is merrily crackling and the candles are bright. The door closes behind them, smoothly, and Richard says, "Sit," absent of any warmth. Jared sits, on the settee by the fire, eyes fixed on his knees.

"You're lucky," Richard says. "The Dowayne is at the palace tonight and will not hear of this until the morning."

Jared closes his eyes. He hadn't thought—

"Luckier still that the servants of this house serve the Dowayne first, so the fact that Thierry was with you means you couldn't have done anything too foolish."

The tiniest softening of his voice, there. Jared keeps his eyes screwed shut, but he feels the settee shift when Richard sits beside him. There's a pause, and then a sigh. "Speak up, dear," Richard says, and he's perhaps a bit exasperated but at least there's no more of that awful chill, and tears spring to Jared's eyes, a terrible tightness behind them.

Jared sucks in a shaky breath, and says, "I was at Eglantine," and when he looks up Richard is watchful, but still distant, and Jared licks his lips. "There was a Showing." Richard frowns, with a moue of confusion. "A patron requested—Jensen was—" Jared shakes his head. His hand goes to his cheek and feels almost frozen compared to the heat there.

"Ah." Richard sighs, again. "That does explain some things."

"I didn't want to—" Jared bites his lips between his teeth. "I thought I wouldn't be allowed to go, and I…"

"I understand, dear one," Richard says, and smiles, at last, though it's only small. "I do wish you would have told me. I worried for you."

Fresh tears, then, though only one or two spill over. "Ah, now," Richard murmurs, and pulls Jared into his chest, petting gently over the back of his head. Jared shudders, trying not to ruin the velvet cloak. Richard's arm goes around his shoulders. "Was the Showing very beautiful?"

Jared nods, wiping at his cheeks. "Jensen was—perfect," he manages, even though that's not even close to sufficient.

He is an utter mess, but when Richard pulls back and looks into his face, he smiles regardless. "Darling," he says, rich with a meaning Jared cannot decipher. Richard shakes his head, then tucks Jared's loose hair behind his ears and kisses him, on both damp cheeks and then his forehead, lingering there and sighing softly against Jared's skin. "Elua has blessed you, Jared," Richard says, quiet. He pulls back and puts his fingers under Jared's chin. "Would that we all could be so favored."

Jared doesn't know what that means, but Richard only shakes his head again and then stands, drawing Jared up to his feet. "We will talk again in the morning," he says, and it's without a smile but he touches Jared's cheek softly, so it must be all right. "Go to your room, now, to bed. There's much to think on, I'm sure."

Jared inclines his head, but then lurches forward and embraces Richard about the shoulders, impulsive. Richard laughs, soft, but hugs him back. They're of a height, now, Jared realizes. He doesn't know when that happened.

His room belowstairs is empty, now, with Gemma gone away to become a priestess of Naamah. It's still early—if the house were open to guests, the fete wouldn't even be close to through—but he strips off his finery and lays down, anyway, watching the candles burn steadily on his bedside table.

Details rise up in startling clarity behind his eyes. Jensen's lashes, thick and soot-dark, casting shadows when his eyes fluttered closed in the pleasure of the _languisement_. In the brightness of the chandeliers his freckles were blotted away, but the way his skin glowed, creamy-gold like it was lit from within. The moment when Amaury found his climax and Jensen shuddered, arching up into the finale, welcoming and cracked-open, his pleasure stunning in its honesty—

Heat has risen again between Jared's thighs and he shudders, closing his eyes and reaching down. His fingers drag in unison down his belly, find the barely-there cut of muscle at his hips, and then—oh, oh. His cock flushed and full, his sac below tender, the wanting that had ridden so high under his skin surging back all at once, long-denied and now urgent, leaping in the pit of his stomach. He knows the movements, the way he could tease and prolong, goading himself to a pleasure that could set his teeth to aching—but no, not now, not with how fresh it is. He curls his fingers around and remembers, and it's easy, then. Rubbing and tugging, his hands hot and his flesh demanding, his skin tight and shimmering with—Jensen, Jensen, arching and twisting. Jared digs his heels into the mattress and lifts up into his own hand and there behind his eyes is Jensen smiling at him, his arm slung around Jared's shoulders as he leaned in, green-gold eyes and his smell, his hands, the way he crushed Jared into his chest and Jared could listen in close to his heart beating—

Climax rips through him and he makes a noise, his hand working fast and steady, his balls clutched up high and pulsing everything out. It's—oh, a bloom of heat, a clench and pulse, shooting so strong it's almost worrisome, wet spilling over his belly, smearing his hand, everything slick all at once. By Naamah—he's spilled at night, in his bedclothes; he didn't know it could be like that. He lays there and breathes, eyes closed. Jensen's face, there at the end, floats behind his eyes: lax, and satisfied. He'll never get more than that, and he doesn't hope to, but this—this could almost be enough.

*

As promised, he is brought before the Dowayne in the morning, Félicie standing behind his right shoulder and Richard sitting at the side. He kneels _abeyante_ and explains what he did, his eyes fixed on the wood floor. When he finishes, there is a sigh, and the Dowayne finally says, "Look up, Jared."

The Dowayne’s kind face is set in solemn lines, and Félicie behind him seems disappointed. Jared bites the inside of his cheek and forces himself to hold the Dowayne’s gaze.

"I have discussed the matter with your mentor," the Dowayne says, nodding to where Richard waits. "You have not broken your bond with the house—your transgression was not even particularly wicked—but you did deliberately mislead us. Worse, you took advantage of the trust we have placed in you."

Heat surges to Jared's face, his eyes stinging. "I'm sorry," he says, voice wavering and thick.

The Dowayne's expression softens, if only a little, and he tilts his head as he considers Jared. "I know you are," he says, gentle. "But you will still be punished. I hope it will remind you of your responsibility."

He is dismissed, then; he follows Richard out of the Dowayne's office with a fine tremble under his skin and tears still threatening. He has never been punished before. Richard squeezes his hand and sends him to study, to await his sentence.

In the end, the Dowayne's punishment is both kindness and cruelty. Punishments are rare for children of the court, but he knows that Félicie has a tawse in her office, and he has heard from Jensen that some of the fosterlings in Eglantine can act up badly enough that a spanking or even lashes will be meted out to tame them. However, it transpires that his Dowayne prefers to meet misbehavior with punishment in kind. Instead of a lashing, he will be confined to the house, for a full month, which means no riding lessons at Madame Perrin's stables and, more pertinently, no visit to Eglantine. No Jensen. He wonders if Richard spoke to the Dowayne on his behalf. When he is released from the Dowayne's office once more, he dashes the damp from his eyes, and then goes out into the courtyard and around to the carriage-house to find Thierry taking his luncheon, and there he goes down to his knees on the cobblestones and apologizes with all his heart for his deception, asking Thierry's forgiveness.

He's pulled up to his feet by two strong hands, cutting off his babbling. "Up you get, young master," Thierry says, quiet. "You'll ruin your breeches, getting down in the muck like that."

"Tell me you haven't been punished, please," Jared begs, catching one of Thierry's big hands in his own.

Thierry lets him have it, just for a moment. "It's none of your concern," he says, but kindly. He disengages his hand and cups the side of Jared's head, then turns back to his luncheon. "The grooms will think I've done some terrible thing," he says, mild, and Jared looks around to see that, oh, yes, there are other servants about, some of them looking politely away and some of them flat-out grinning at the child who has come into their midst. He flushes, looking down. Thierry tears a piece of bread from his loaf and offers it to Jared, who takes it for lack of a better option. "I'm fine, Jared," Thierry says, and when Jared looks up Thierry gives him a smile that transforms his rough, simple face. "But I thank you for the apology. Now, eat that and scurry along. You've lessons to attend to, I've no doubt."

He does—and he throws himself into them, in the time that follows, trying to be an exemplar of one of the Court's children. During the day, he studies the texts and is attentive at practice and demonstration, absorbing everything he possibly can. He can hold even the longest carved phallus in the back of his throat with ease, his gag reflex trained away at last, and can hold his breath for almost a full minute. Contact with the adepts is not allowed, as he is still not of the age of majority, but instead he tests his knowledge by choreographing lovemaking, Richard supervising while Cherette and Percy act out his murmured call for _Camael's gambit_ , or the _caress of the waning moon_. Cherette flushes and Percy hardens and they meet their pleasure, and it is a job well done.

When at last he comes again to Eglantine, he's—nervous. Unaccountably so. He walks down the hill, the first days of June warm and beautiful and the sky an unbroken perfect blue, Thierry guarding his side from the few carriages and wagons moving on the boulevard, and the memories flush up high in him. He's going pink before he even enters the house gates. He breathes steadily, using the techniques Richard has taught him about quelling desire. Perhaps not the exact situation Richard was envisioning, but it cannot hurt to try.

By the time they come into the house and he finds Jensen in the wide east gallery, he thinks he has himself somewhat under control. Jensen looks up from his book and a smile breaks over his face like dawn, and he says, "At last!" and stands to embrace Jared, and—well, then Jared must put in extra effort. He hugs Jensen back, of course, and breathes in the wild rose of him. Oh, he has missed this.

"Where have you _been_?" Jensen says, pushing him back by the shoulders and searching his face.

Jared puts on a small frown. "Didn't you get my letter?"

Jensen shakes his head. "You were 'busy'?" he says, skeptical.

Jared sighs, and sits at the table, where Jensen's books are spread all around. He glances at the corner, where Daphne sits with tea in hand, watching him steadily over the rim of her cup. "Richard had a number of private assignations that required special attention," Jared says, putting a note of suffering into his voice. "And then Félicie asked me to assist Victor, too. I wish the timing had worked better. I missed our lessons."

He has practiced this, with all the time he's had to think. A plausible lie, the last he hopes ever to tell Jensen, capped with the softening of the truth. Jensen's mouth quirks, and he sits beside Jared on the bench, tugging him right into his place. "I've missed the lessons, too," he says, soft like it's a secret, and Jared—oh, Elua, he loves him.

Jared swallows, almost dizzy for a second. Jensen's arm curves easy around his shoulders, and Jared catches his dangling hand, holding it against his chest. His heart pounds. "How—" he starts, and has to clear his throat. "How did your Showing go?"

"Oh," Jensen says. A glance up and Jared sees that—oh, for once, it's Jensen who's flushing, blood rising high on his cheekbones and pinking his ears. He shrugs, looking down at the book of poetry before him and flicking through the pages, dissembling terribly. "We were—well-received, I think. All went smoothly."

"Too modest," Daphne says, from her corner. She stands, with a rustle of silk, and paces over to their table. "Commandant de Mereliot was most impressed. Jensen has already taken an assignation with him, and another scheduled for August."

The man's handsome smile flickers in Jared's memory—but foremost still is that last moment, Jensen satisfied. "That is a coup," Jared says, smiling, and he means it.

Jensen shrugs again, still pink, and keeps his eyes on his book. "What shall we work on today?" he says, clearly embarrassed, and Jared squeezes his hand before he looks up at Daphne.

She's watching his face, cool and assessing. All he can do is meet her eyes, open as he can be—he's relying entirely on her discretion, and owes her that at least. Her eyes slide to Jensen, after a moment, and then she shakes her head, looking out the windows. "We will re-examine _The Chronicle of Hyacinthe_ ," she says, finally. Jensen nods and slips off the bench, going to the shelves to pull the book. Daphne glances at Jared while his back is turned, expression almost rueful, then shakes her head again and crosses to the bell at her tea table. "I'll call for Bijou to play the Comtesse; Jared, you will be Hyacinthe."

He bows his head. When Jensen returns with the book, he's none the wiser as to what passed between them—and then there's the play to consider, and the emotions to unpack, and they slip back into their routine, as though they never left it.

In October, Orchis greets two new children: twins, a boy and a girl, raised in Bryony but neither of them with a head for gambling or any real desire for wealth. Geneve and Gilbert are both fair, dark-eyed, prone both to giggles and squabbling, and Jared likes them both immediately, for the entertainment of their bickering if nothing else. For ease, they rearrange rooms, so that Jared shares with Eveline and the twins have their own room together. Eveline sighs, watching the maid hang her livery and few gowns in the wardrobe with Jared's things. "I could complain more, you know," she says, and falls backward on the bed. "But I think you won't chatter my ear off, at least, so I may have gotten the better end of the bargain."

"I shall try not to kick you," he promises, hand on his heart, and she laughs, and then tosses a pillow at his head. He falls over, dramatically, and puts the pillow over his face to make her laugh more. It will be less than a year of sharing, though; soon enough, he'll be sixteen.

Lessons continue. Jared is a perfectly adept rider, at this point, at ease even on the quicker palfrey, able to gallop and even to jump, though Jensen nearly expired from nervousness when Jared tried it. He still likes Holly best, though, and Madame Perrin takes no issue with them coming to exercise her horses once a week. It helps to get out of the house, and stretch and move, for the growing pains have started to take Jared. Richard tells him it is natural, at his age, but that doesn't stop it hurting, terribly. He's several inches taller than Richard, now, and Félicie and the Dowayne think he will only grow more—especially as he's hit by hunger at all times of day, his belly grumbling even as he and Eveline shadow the Dowayne at the nightly fete, or when he attends at lessons in the morning. When he reaches Percy's height, the house puts him onto a new exercise regimen—following Marcus's example rather than Richard's, working on his strength and giving his always-lengthening muscle something to do. Richard shakes his head, circling Jared's new biceps with his delicate hand. "You were such a little boy," he says, rueful, looking up, and Jared grins and ducks his head. There are extra dancing lessons, to take his new height into account, extra balance and agility exercises to ensure he knows how to use his longer limbs, but it's worth it to finally not be so _small_.

Gossip among the adepts indicates that Audette thinks of retirement; her marque has been made for a year, nearly, and Percy and Laura speculate privately to Jared that she grows tired of Court life. They are proved wrong, abruptly, when instead Audette asks for Eisheth's blessing, and falls pregnant before the Longest Night. There is no secret of parentage, this time: Fabien, the oldest of the adepts besides Richard, fathered the child. Jared had no idea the two of them were involved with each other. The Dowayne throws a small fete, to celebrate, and the adepts toast to the babe's good health, and to Fabien and Audette's love. Jared had always thought Audette too sharp for it, but her face when Fabien leans in to kiss her, the tender way she cups the nonexistent swell of her belly and smiles—well. He was wrong, and cannot be gladder about it.

A chilly morning, later, and the children and what adepts are awake after their night of feting and assignations are at breakfast. Victor is in the middle of a story about one of his recent assignations, a noble lady who has steadily visited each of the thirteen houses in turn, trying to decide which suits her tastes best—but arrived at Orchis with no real sense of humor, leading Victor to try even tickling her feet to make the woman laugh. "Orchids do not suit her fancy, I think," he says, in his deep amused voice. He taps Gilbert's button-nose, making the boy giggle. "Perhaps she can go off to Gentian and the mystics can dream up her desires, hm?"

Richard lets out an uncharacteristic snort, and Jared smiles into his tea. "Like as not she will be drunk on poppy-smoke and not remember anything," Richard says, slicing into a preserved apricot, "and the dreamers will claim some profound discovery."

Esme sighs—she grew up in Gentian, and has more sympathy for their more esoteric methods than Richard ever will—but before she can retort there is a clatter from the front hall, and they all turn their heads almost as one to watch one of the maids come into the dining hall, curtsying.

"I am sorry to interrupt," she murmurs, and Richard beckons her in, as the senior adept present with Félicie still abed. "Jensen nó Eglantine has arrived, here to see Master Jared."

Laura, drowsy at the end of the table, lets out a little catcall, setting Gilbert and Geneve both to giggling. Jared sends her an exasperated look, set to rise, but Richard stands first. His hair is a tangle, caught messily over one shoulder, and he's wearing just his dressing gown and warm slippers, but he pats Jared's shoulder and gestures for him to come along. "Thank you," he says, to the maid, and then turns a smile on Jared. "Shall we?"

Off-kilter, Jared follows—acutely aware of his own ruffled appearance, only an hour out of bed and not even bathed, yet, though at least he's in breeches and a decent coat handed down from Marcus. Richard sweeps out into the main hall, carrying his teacup, and there they find Jensen waiting with a hat clutched in both hands, snow still white on his shoulders, and he blinks when confronted with Richard's mussed beauty but sweeps a quick bow, eyes darting to Jared.

"Good morning, Jensen," Richard says, warm and sounding somehow amused. Jensen murmurs a greeting, rising again. "A very early morning, in fact. Would you like to join our breakfast?"

"I apologize if I've—interrupted; I did not mean to disrupt the house," Jensen says, polite.

"Not at all," Richard returns, lifting his cup of tea. "I only wanted to meet the famous Jensen nó Eglantine. Our Jared speaks of you exclusively in superlatives."

Waiting quietly a step behind, Jared feels himself start to flush. Jensen smiles, but briefly, and there's a pause—only a moment, but enough that Jared gets a better look at him. He's dressed, in his fawn day-suit with his blue coat over the top, but his hair is mussed, the ties on his shirt poorly done, like he came in a rush.

"I was hoping—" Jensen starts, and has to clear his throat. "I wondered if I might speak to Jared."

A strain in his voice, nearly buried, but with Night Court-trained ears made sensitive to the slightest shift in mood Jared catches it, and Richard certainly does. He nods, thoughtful, and then offers his hand. Jensen hesitates for just a fraction of a second before he takes it. Richard smiles at him, warm. "My thanks, Jensen," he says, "for being such a friend to Jared. We could all hope to have such a bond." From someone else, it might have had a double-meaning. Jensen blinks, and Jared ducks his head, but before anything else can be said Richard pulls back, and cups his hand to Jared's cheek. "Remember, darling, we have a lesson at midday," he says, and Jared nods. Richard smiles up at him—still so odd, to look down into that face—and then nods to Jensen and sweeps back to the dining hall, leaving them alone.

"I hope I won't get you into trouble," Jensen says, that strain still shivering in his voice.

"Richard is sincere," Jared says, shaking his head, and then he goes to Jensen and catches his hand, squeezing it. "Is something—amiss? You never come so early."

Jensen looks at him, full-on, and there is no mask there to shield his thoughts, his eyes reddened as though with tears. Rare, to have him so caught off-guard. Jared frowns, and draws Jensen up the main stair, up to the sitting room where they've played chess on Jensen's few visits to the house. He installs Jensen on the settee and rings for the maid, ordering tea and a fire built, and it's not long before the room is cheery, comfortable and warm in contrast to the February chill outside the windows. When the tea arrives Jensen has taken off his coat, at least, but he still stands stiff at the mantle, looking down into the fire, and it's left to Jared to pour the tea and wait, watching worried while Jensen seems to grow ever more agitated.

"If you can't say it," Jared says, finally, when his own stomach has tied into knots, "at least sit with me. Your tea will get cold."

Jensen lets out a huff, but does at least sit, close enough that his knee brushes Jared's. He picks up the cup Jared has prepared, looks down into it, and then sets it back down again with a clatter that sloshes liquid into the saucer. "I had an assignation with de Mereliot last night," he announces, abruptly.

Jared freezes, his cup halfway to his lips. A second too late, he remembers himself and puts it back in its saucer, more carefully than Jensen had. "How did it go?" he says, trying for calm. The last time he can remember Jensen volunteering anything about his patrons was—almost a year ago, in this exact room, when Jensen first learned of the commandant and was nervous enough that it spilled over.

"He was—it was fine, that wasn't—" Jensen shakes his head and stands again, pacing to the window and looking out. A light snow sifts down, outside, frosting the city with white. "Afterward, while he watched me writing. He—he told me something. Bragging, the way patrons do, trying to impress. I don't know why they bother, with the contract already sanded and sealed."

Jared licks his lips, imagining: Jensen, perhaps nude or in just a dressing gown, firelight gilding his profile, the commandant watching from a bed tumbled with their efforts. He can guess, why they try to make Jensen look at them again. "What did he say?" he says. For an awful moment he wonders if it's something like a proposal to be a consort, or to travel with the regiment, or to buy out his marque—something that will take Jensen away.

"Military campaigns." Jensen runs a hand through his hair, turning and leaning back into the window. He can't settle, fidgeting with his collar and sleeves, his weight shifting nervously. "He usually wants to talk about the latest novels, I don't know why last night he decided to—" He shakes his head, looking down at the floor. "Before he was promoted to commandant of the First Company, he was a captain of one of the companies that guard Namarre, and he told me—his company had been responsible for neutralizing a group of bandits, who had been terrorizing the farmers and merchants on the road. It would have been no great feat, but the bandits weren't only bandits. They were mercenaries, sacking caravans."

Jared frowns. There's a distant, terrible expression on Jensen's face, his eyes looking into some other place, and it's too long before the connection clicks into Jared's mind. Mercenaries, bandits. Of course. "Oh, Jensen," he says, and Jensen looks up at him with wet eyes. It's just a few steps across the room to take Jensen in his arms, hug him close and tight. Jensen makes a soft noise, deep in the base of his throat, and Jared closes his eyes. "It cannot be the same men, can it? I thought they were all—"

"Dead," Jensen says, muffled into Jared's shoulder. "I saw it. They were all dead."

Heat rises up behind Jared's eyes. He's never, ever forgotten the story, told to him so long ago. He shifts, slips an arm around Jensen's shoulders and just holds him. Would that there were some means to take the memory away; even in Jared's heart it is an ugly sore, and how much worse for Jensen, to have it ever-present. Almost a decade ago, now, and his smile so rarely comes without a shadow. Jared turns his head and puts his lips to Jensen's temple, no intent behind it but comfort, and Jensen shudders, wraps his arms around Jared's waist and tugs him in, finally returning the embrace. Long moments, the fire warm at Jared's back and Jensen warm and solid in his arms, the chill from the window barely felt.

Finally Jensen shifts, sliding his hands to Jared's hips, and Jared loosens his embrace just enough to lean back. Jensen's eyes are damp, but he's not weeping, and he smiles even, brief though it is. "When did you get so tall," he says, and tweaks the end of Jared's braid. Jared smiles, ducking his head. They're almost of a height, now. In a more sober tone, Jensen says, "I'm sorry that I—it's only, I have no one else to speak to, about…"

"Never apologize for that," Jared says, cutting him off. He catches Jensen's hands, holding them tight in the little space between their breasts. "You can tell me anything, always. I'll always be your friend, Jensen. I swear it."

No matter what else he feels, that is true, and it must ring so to Jensen. He looks back and forth between Jared's eyes, his own almost startled, and then he must accept it, for he leans in and presses his lips to Jared's forehead. A soft kiss, so gentle that Jared's eyes sting, and he closes them.

When Jensen pulls back he isn't smiling, but he isn't so distressed, either. He squeezes Jared's hands, and then takes a deep breath. "Would you care to thrash me at chess, before your lessons?" he says, in a voice that's almost light.

Jared smiles, and hugs Jensen quickly, one more time before he steps away. Balm taught gentle care, but Orchis leads him now. "Are you sure you're ready to be humiliated that badly?" he says, with false concern, and Jensen rolls his eyes with enough exaggeration to make Jared grin. He could wish that nothing would ever put that frightened look on Jensen's face, ever again—but he can help, at least, and there's a swell of warm pride in his chest, that that's so. The pieces are already laid on the board and Jensen sits at black, letting Jared take the white, and Jared tuts, opens with Cassiel's gambit, and knows that he will always, always, be whatever Jensen needs.

*

That spring goes by slowly, each day and week creeping past so tediously Jared is certain that somehow the sun has grown lazy and sluggish. He has reached the final stage of his lessons, and now all that is left to do is perfect his knowledge. Richard helps to guide him through preparing himself for a patron, the last few details of grooming and hygiene that will be required before he begins to serve. He is still growing, and with Marcus and Claude he works to put on muscle and breadth, but even so his mealtimes change, taken with the adepts instead of the other children so that when the time comes, he will be ready to seamlessly transition.

At the nightly fete, while he and Eveline follow the Dowayne and Félicie, he sees the patrons taking notice of him, more often. Lady Irène catches his eye and smiles at him, looking him up and down obviously before she turns to greet the Dowayne; a minor baronet and his friends all a-gossip pause when Jared brings a new carafe of wine, and one of the drunker lordlings catches Jared's hand and kisses the knuckles in thanks, his lips hot and purple-stained, and Jared's heart pounds in his throat before Félicie appears next to him and smiles, sending him back to the Dowayne. He asks Richard, who he thinks it will be, and Richard smiles and does not tell him. "Naamah will take you in her hands, darling," he says, calm, "no matter who is lucky enough to have you."

There are fittings, and re-fittings, and the couturier the house uses threatens to charge double if Jared grows another inch. They trim his hair, creating a few shorter layers around his face, but it's still midway down his back. He is inspected, nude, by the Dowayne and Félicie, Richard staying by to consult, and the Dowayne smiles at him and gently pinches his cheek where he's blushing. "You'll charm them to their knees," he says, kindly, and Jared's chest blooms with warmth. They decide to keep his body hair, little though it is, and send him to take some sun in the private garden, letting his skin take on a tinge of bronze all over.

At Madame Perrin's, just a month before the debut, he and Jensen are watching Geneve and Gilbert take their first slow ride, Gilbert nervous and Geneve making a show of bravery to show him up. Jared folds his arms on the top rail of the fence around the little paddock. "I'm… nervous," he says, finally, eyes on Geneve whispering into Holly's perked ear.

Next to him, Jensen leans his back against the fence. They haven't talked about this, very much. "What makes you nervous?" Jensen says, after a pause.

Jared huffs a laugh, planting his chin on the back of his folded hands. "What if I—I don't know. What if the patrons do not want me and I shame the house, or what if I forget my lessons and let down Richard and everyone."

"You won't," Jensen says. It's soft, but there's conviction in his tone.

Jared lets his head rock to the side so he can see, and Jensen is looking off into the distance. In the sun, light catching the gold in his hair, freckles darkening over the perfect slant of his cheekbones—he's so beautiful. "You don't know that," Jared says, just to be contrary. "Unless you are a soothsayer and haven't told me."

There is a little squabble, out in the paddock—Gilbert insisting that it is now his turn, Geneve's bravery having sparked in him the need to outdo her. Jensen glances their way, and then turns to Jared. He considers Jared for a long moment, eyes roving over his face, and Jared straightens a little under it. "I will ask the question, once more," he says, voice serious. "Is this what you want to do?"

A little lurch, in his belly, remembering—almost three years ago, now. It doesn't hurt now like it did then, knowing that Jensen really does have only his best interest in mind. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, giving Jensen the courtesy of thinking before he answers. In his mind flashes an image of Naamah's statue, smiling and kind in the house shrine. Honey and wine on his tongue. "Yes," he says, and opens his eyes, and finds Jensen watching him still. He shrugs, helpless. "It is everything I know, and what I am. It's what I want."

Jensen reaches out and finds his braid, running his fingers down the length of it until he can give it a little tug. "Then you needn't worry," Jensen says. "Whoever it is won't deserve you, but you'll enchant them. I know it."

He isn't smiling, or even making one of his dry jests—it's just honesty. Jared finds his hand and squeezes it, blinking away the little surge of emotion. Some days it is all he can do to keep his feelings in line. Before he can say anything, there is a cry from the paddock—Geneve, calling out, "Jared, Gilbert is being _mean_!" and he sighs and swiftly climbs the fence to handle the two little hellions, and it's left again for another day, or never.

The day before his birthday, Richard takes him in the house carriage down into the city. Rather than going to the outskirts where the Perrin stable and estate are, they go toward the center, down streets and boulevards Jared has never seen. The palace, in the distance, glimmers white and massive, closer than he has seen it from Mont Nuit. They move down a long boulevard lined with silver birch, the carriage dappled with shade, until they come to the Great Temple of Naamah: a small building of white marble, set a little away from the noise of the city. The acolyte who comes to greet them is young, perhaps Richard's age, his long hair loose over the shoulders of his scarlet surplice. He must recognize Richard, for he gives the kiss of greeting and smiles, squeezing Richard's hands, before he turns to Jared. "You must be a Servant of Naamah," he says, in a light, musical voice.

"I am," Jared says, almost a whisper.

The acolyte draws him close and kisses both his cheeks. "Be welcome, brother," he says, and extends his arm, allowing them to enter. The Temple is full of sunlight when they walk inside, candles lit all around and flowers scattered throughout. Richard nods toward the altar and Jared goes to it, kneeling without thought on the cushion and gazing up at the great ancient statue. Naamah's face is simpler here than at the shrine at home, her eyes blank white and her features picked out less delicately, but she is still welcoming, still kind and open and compassionate. Jared gazes up, breathing slow and steady in the silence, and finds himself at peace.

He sleeps late, in the morning. When he wakes, he goes to the bathing room and soaks in waters perfumed with oils of orange and jasmine. Richard helps to wash his hair, and then combs it out until it's thick and shining. The day passes slowly. He plays himself, at chess, and manages to drag himself into a stalemate; he reads another chapter in the book he borrowed from Eglantine. He eats lightly, at luncheon with the adepts, though his nerves have mostly been eased, and Laura teases him only a little. Félicie shows him to his new rooms and he loves them—they are Antoine's old chambers, near to Richard's, and they are as beautifully appointed as anything else in Orchis, done in rich shades of amber and sky blue. His eyes are drawn immediately to the bed, spread with fresh snow-white linens, but for him they have also added a chessboard on the little table before the fire. He throws his arms around Félicie in thanks, and she laughs, leaning up to kiss his cheek. "Welcome home, Jared," she says.

When it is time, he prepares himself. No real penetration is allowed before his virgin-night, but he cleans himself and carefully oils his entrance, dipping in just one finger. The Dowayne decided on a light bergamot scent, for this first evening, and he touches it to his throat and wrists and thighs, years of watching Richard do the same rising up in his memory. He comes out from behind the screen in his bathing room to find Richard and Félicie waiting. They dress him carefully in the suit chosen for his debut: sky blue, again, the color Félicie has always liked him best in, with small flowers embroidered at the wrists, bronze threading thick at the collar and the closures of the doublet. His boots are a deep brown, polished to a glossy sheen, folded down just below the knee. Félicie herself braids his hair, a complex tail that curves over his shoulder tied with a blue ribbon, the layers around his face left loose. Richard lines his eyes with a soft brown, dabs the smallest amount of gloss on his lips so that they shine as though freshly licked, and then—

"You're ready," Richard says, sliding his thumb down Jared's jaw. He's smiling, proud. Jared catches his hand and presses a careful kiss to it, his heart full.

"Come along, dearest," Félicie says, holding out her hand, and he stands. They inspect him in the full-length mirror and he hardly recognizes himself—but then, he does. This polished adept, sooty-lashed and wrapped in richness, is him. Behind him stands Félicie gorgeous in her green gown, and Richard beautiful as always in his mahogany suit, and he feels like one of them. Félicie smiles at his reflection and he can do nothing but smile back.

They move circuitously through the rear corridors as the music begins in the main hall. Richard kisses him once more, before he has to join the rest of the adepts, and he whispers in Jared's ear _Naamah bless you_. Félicie leads him out on the careful path that blocks any guest's view until he's hidden behind the screen at the top of the great staircase, and then Eveline is there, murmuring that the Dowayne is nearly ready. "Smile, dearest," Félicie says, looking up at him with warm eyes, and he does, helplessly. She laughs, soft, and touches one of his dimples. "Precious as ever."

Eveline squeezes his hand, looking as though she can hardly contain her excitement, and then disappears into the rear corridors, leaving him to close his eyes and listen. The room is full, the patrons already merry, and he knows that wine is flowing freely, the kitchens bustling to keep up with a debut night. There is the surge of noise when the attending adepts enter, a smattering of applause and a few catcalls; then the Dowayne's entrance, and the fete truly begins.

"Welcome, my lords," the Dowayne calls, and the music stills, the crowd drawn to attention. "I believe you know why you are here. Orchis House tonight gains another blossom." A cry of _at last!_ from the audience and Jared feels the blood rush to his cheeks, the grin he's been wearing on and off all day tugging again at his mouth. "My lords, I present Jared nó Orchis, who today has gained his sixteenth year."

The prearranged signal: Jared takes a breath and steps out from behind the screen, into the light. The Dowayne is waiting for him at landing on the turn of the great stair and he descends to meet him as the crowd applauds. He takes the Dowayne's extended hand and bows, deeply, aware that all eyes are on him. He has watched this from the crowd—very different, to be the subject of it, but the nervousness he expected to leap to his throat doesn't arrive. The Dowayne continues, introducing him and making some jest that makes the gathered patrons laugh, but Jared doesn't hear it. Faces jump out, patrons he recognizes from his years of serving, some new, some watching him with undisguised desire and some leaning in to gossip. Richard stands beside Michel Fabre, his dark eyes fixed on Jared, and he sends an encouraging smile Jared's way which Jared returns, easily.

At the Dowayne's nod Jared takes a step forward and extends his hands, spinning a slow circle to display himself to the crowd. "A hale, handsome young man," the Dowayne says, and takes Jared's hand again. "Surely, my lords and ladies, you will do Naamah justice for the favor of his virgin bed."

"My lord, you need say no more!" calls out one of the assembled men—it is Fabre, unexpectedly, grinning with his arm around Richard's shoulders. Richard winks at Jared, his white hand placed delicately on Fabre's breast. "I begin the bidding—two hundred ducats!"

"For such a treasure?" a lady says, with a scoff. "Two hundred fifty, easily."

A very tall man by the sideboard raises his goblet—a merchant, Dufresne, who pinches Jared's cheek while he's serving. "Three hundred, and a dozen kisses for my lady Félicie as a bonus!" he calls out, making the assembled laugh and Félicie blow him a kiss across the hall, and then the bidding begins in earnest, the patrons egging each other on with jests and challenges. Jared laughs along when Boisvert mock-challenges Fabre to a duel over another 'insulting' bid, and blows a two-handed kiss when the Baroness Roydenne and her sister promise to serenade him to sleep afterward. He knows the eddies of influence in this game, though. Fabre has no intent of taking him to bed, likely only spurred to honor Richard's apprentice, and Boisvert's main enjoyment is sparring with Fabre. Some of those watching, though—he can see the desire in their eyes. He flushes under it, inevitably, his body reacting as though under a compulsion.

At the last the bidding comes down to three: Baroness Roydenne, the Comte de Chavaise, and the Chevalier Emile Landres, each of them pushing up in ever-higher increments. When it comes to two thousand ducats the Comte drops out with a wounded cry, and Percy throws his arms around the man and hugs him for the loss. At three thousand, Jared's heart feels fit to pound right out of his chest. The baroness hesitates, and calls out for three thousand two hundred. Landres, holding his goblet of wine casually against his chest, smiles up at Jared and calls, "Beautiful boy, should I bid again?"

His eyes are dark, his desire easy and obvious, his voice rich with the rounded vowels of Eisande. Jared smiles down at him. "My lord, it is your decision—to make a mighty homage to Naamah tonight, or not?"

Boisvert lets out a whoop and several patrons laugh, delighted. It lights in Jared's stomach: there is power, here. He understood it only distantly, before, but he has it now in hand.

Landres raises his goblet in a toast. "Three thousand five hundred, then," he says, "and a case of wine from my estate to the Great Temple of Naamah, if we're talking of homages."

The baroness hesitates again, and then shakes her head, and the Dowayne claps his hands, declaring the auction over. Jared meets Landres' eyes and a frisson shivers over his skin, chest to stomach to the base of his cock. The crowd applauds again, someone calling out encouragement to Landres and another demanding a shipment of this wine, if it is good enough for Naamah. The Dowayne offers Jared his hand, smiling, and together they descend the stairs into the fete, the patrons drawing back so that they have a clear path. When they meet, Jared bows again, and the Dowayne places his hand in Landres'. He bows to kiss it, in his turn. His lips are warm, his breath momentarily hot on Jared's skin. The music has begun again, a rollicking cheerful allemande, and Nicole is dancing with a patron, drawing some attention away. "Will you retire immediately?" the Dowayne asks, under the noise.

Landres runs his thumb over Jared's knuckles. He's a few inches taller than Jared, in his late thirties and still handsome, laughter-lines crinkling beside his eyes. "I think so," he says, his eyes on Jared's face. "Is that agreeable to you?"

Jared nods, dry-mouthed. Landres smiles at him, kindly, and then turns to the Dowayne. "A moment first, my lord. Your office?"

The Dowayne inclines his head and leads the way. The Chancellor of the house is waiting for them, a contract already half-drawn. Jared is barely paying attention, his focus entirely on the point where their two bodies connect, and so it's a surprise when a lady follows them into the office before the door closes behind them and the noise of the fete is muffled.

"My wife," Landres says, inclining his head. He doesn't release Jared's hand.

Jared faces her, the name coming to his mind after only a second. "Lady Hilaire," he murmurs, bowing.

She laughs, bright. "Emile, you were right," she says, looking up at Jared with sparkling eyes. "How could I have doubted?"

She's several years younger than Landres, perhaps Richard's age, and she's beautiful—a tumble of blonde curls, eyes of a deep dark blue, skin firm and flushed with youth. Jared smiles at her, taken by her vivacity.

"My lord," Landres says, to the Dowayne. "I have purchased the virgin-price for myself, but I will gladly pay more for my wife to join us, if you will allow it."

Jared blinks and glances between them. Hilaire tucks her hand in at his elbow and he automatically accommodates her. She smells of herbs, somehow, a startling change after the usual flowers and sweetness of the adepts. The Dowayne lifts his chin, eyes suddenly sharp. He is kind, Jared's Dowayne, but he is also a businessman. "Jared?" he says, finally. "I will allow it, if you accept."

Somehow, he manages to find his tongue. "I am honored to, my lord," he says.

Hilaire squeezes his arm and smiles up at him. "I'm so glad," she whispers.

Landres kisses Jared's hand again and then goes to the desk, where the Chancellor is adding new lines to the contract. There is a murmured negotiation, whatever additional the Dowayne is charging added to the scroll, and then Landres signs, followed by the Dowayne, and the Chancellor stamps it with the official seal. Jared takes a breath. It's done.

They go out, through the fete. It is almost a blur. Someone says something, to him or to Landres, but Jared doesn't hear it; he leads the way up the stairs, another smattering of applause and catcalls following them, and through the public corridors to his own chambers, lit by dozens of candles.

Jared goes to the center of the room and turns. "What do you wish, my lord?" he asks, his voice barely steady.

Landres stands hand in hand with his wife, both of them looking at him, just for a moment. Finally, Landres kisses her on the temple and nods, and she goes to sit on the foot of the bed. "Do you know why I bought your virgin-price?" Landres says, turning to Jared.

"No, my lord," Jared says, and it's in earnest.

He comes in close, and tucks Jared's hair behind both his ears. "Look at you," he murmurs, close, and Jared ducks his head. "There—that's it, that's why. Hilaire, you see?"

"Yes," she says, a smile in her voice. "Blushing like a rosebud."

That only makes the heat rise higher in Jared's cheeks, but clearly they don't mind. "Just in this room," Landres says, lifting Jared's chin with one finger. "I am Emile, and she is Hilaire. Yes?"

"Yes," Jared breathes. "Emile."

He smiles, kind, but his eyes are dark and Jared can feel the desire, as though it radiated from his skin. "I would like to kiss you, Jared," he says, and Jared sucks a breath in between his teeth.

"Please," he manages, and Emile leans in and does just that.

His mouth is—oh, the spark of it, lighting up a heat in Jared's belly, like lightning to dry tinder. Jared remembers his lessons, the appropriate movements rising up without him needing to think. He slides his hands up Emile's chest, the fine silk of his jacket warm under Jared's palms, and Emile catches the back of his neck in a smooth wide palm, his mouth firm and precise, bending Jared's head back just a little with gentle force. When he licks in Jared opens for it, easily, but he makes a faint noise he didn't expect and feels the blood rush hot in him.

Emile pulls back, just a little, and smiles. "Good," he says, like Jared's done something to be praised. "We don't need your practiced arts tonight, Jared, not this first time. Just let us guide you. All right?"

Jared looks up into his eyes and nods, helpless to do otherwise. Already he wants this man, more deeply than he thought he could want anyone but Jensen. At Emile's request he disrobes, sitting on the chaise to remove his boots and then standing again to shed doublet and shirt and breeches until he's standing in nothing but his stockings, still tied at the top of his calves. Hilaire smiles at him and beckons him over, and so he goes, and she kisses him, hands stroking over all his bare skin. Her mouth tastes of sweet wine and she's gentler than her husband—who steps up behind Jared, grasping him by the hips and pressing in close so that Jared can feel the swell of him up against his buttocks, a shock that makes him gasp into Hilaire's mouth.

"Impressive, no?" she says, winking at him, and he laughs breathlessly.

"Very," he says, faux-serious. He arches his back, just enough that Emile presses harder against him, and Hilaire grins when Emile makes his own low groan.

"None of that, now," Emile says. He kisses the topmost knob of Jared's spine, then reaches over his shoulder and draws a finger down Hilaire's white throat all the way to the shadow of her cleavage. "Why don't you keep my lady wife occupied?"

Hilaire raises her eyebrows, inviting, and Jared smiles and kisses her again, because she makes it easy. He lets his hands drift down to the closures of her gown, deftly finding the hidden ties and pulling the violet silk away, exposing her corset and the soft high swell of her breasts. A kiss to each nipple, then, and a flick of tongue, the names from the _Trois Milles Joies_ flickering through his mind as he teases her to budded tight rose. "Oh, treasure," she says, with a sigh, and he sinks to his knees, knowing instinctively—he raises her skirts, slipping his palms over the silk of her stockings to the silk of her bare thighs, his thumbs dragging up and up until they meet the hot damp of her sex. Ah—and it's soft, the gentle plush of it so real and giving under his touch. She tips her head down and meets his eyes with a smile, says, "Go on," encouraging, and he grins up at her and then licks deep and wide, one steady stroke before he truly begins the _languisement_.

"How is he?" Emile says, somewhere beyond the warm haven of Hilaire's thighs.

"Delicious," she says, and makes a soft noise when he lets his nose brush her pearl of Naamah. She's sensitive, he can tell already, and he keeps it gentle, probing only lightly and tracing her entrance around and around with his thumb while she grows ever wetter. "Ah—" she says, breathy. "Emile, remind me to do something pleasant for you, at some point."

"What shall it be?" he says, amused, and she says, "Oh, I don't—something, darling, you'll think of—" and then Jared slips a finger inside and sucks at the mound, more pressure now, and she cuts off with a cry, her muscle clenching around him. All those hours and hours of practice paying off, now, and Jared smiles against her, just for a moment. He could do this for the rest of the night, just this. There's a soft noise, and another hand comes to help hold her skirts high and out of his way. Emile—and the soft sound above is their kiss, Hilaire making soft constant moans against her husband's mouth. Jared curls his finger, in just the way he was taught, and moves his tongue like _that_ , and Hilaire's hand flashes down to hold the back of his head as her hips lift and—oh, she _ripples_ around him, wet and clenching, and he holds exactly to the same motion until her hand unclenches from his hair and she sighs. He lifts his head, gasping as quietly as he can, and when he does Hilaire and Emile are both watching him, Emile pleased and Hilaire flushed pink to the brow with pleasure. He wipes a thumb over his chin and smiles, and she makes a soft noise and tips over backwards, flopping happily onto the mattress.

"Well, that was easy enough," Emile says, and guides Jared up from the floor. Hilaire reaches out and thwacks his hip, but weakly, and Emile only lets out a short laugh and bends to lick into Jared's mouth. He's taking the taste of her, the brine of it, and Jared shivers. Emile has stripped away his own clothes, naked together with Jared, and their skin glancing against each other is—distracting, flickers of pleasure as Emile draws him in close. He may be a landed chevalier but he has not gone soft, his body firm and strong against Jared's. His hands drag down to cup Jared's buttocks and they're pressed together, thighs and hips and chest, Emile's cock pressed in against Jared's belly.

"Hm," Emile hums, into Jared's mouth. He pulls back, just enough to look down into his face. "What now, do you think?"

Jared licks his lips. "May I suck your cock?" he says, and it's only honest but Emile groans, and Hilaire laughs breathlessly from the bed.

"You should let him," she says, lifting up on one elbow. "Then perhaps you'd be more sympathetic, brute."

"Perhaps next time," he says, bending a smile at Jared, and Jared sucks in a breath. _Next time_. "For now, I think…" He slips two fingers into Jared's cleft, dragging down to where he's soft and oiled, and Jared's breath stops in his chest.

He's laid out flat on his back. The warmed oil is waiting on a dish for patrons' use and Emile knows exactly where to go. Hilaire leans over and kisses Jared, slow steady presses of her lips and tongue, so skilled that Jared wonders almost if she was trained in the Night Court, and it's almost enough of a distraction that he forgets what Emile is doing—until oil-slick fingers return to his entrance and he gasps up against her. She pulls back enough that they can both watch his face, and he knows that this is part of it, that they want to see—oh, the moment when his fingers breach Jared's body, warm wet pressing inside. It's not completely unfamiliar, but it is the first time someone else has touched him, like this. He draws his thighs farther apart, higher, welcoming, and Emile laughs softly, fingers burrowing deeper. Hilaire pets his hair away from his face, smiling at him, and then kisses him again, her hand slipping down his belly to find his cock, rigid and wanting, playing idly while Emile stretches him enough to be fucked.

It goes on long enough that Jared has been taken by a fine trembling, his thighs shuddering and his hands fisted uselessly into the sheets, and by the time Emile finally says, "All right," his voice a rumble, Jared almost sobs with relief. Hilaire pulls back and Emile kneels up on the bed, his cock deep red with waiting, and Jared's mouth waters and he opens, eyes fixed on Emile's when he falls into place, the simplest position. Emile spreads a hand on the side of his face, thumb stroking over Jared's cheekbone, and then he—pushes, and Jared feels his mouth drop open and he drags a leg high up against Emile's side, because that's—that's—

"Oh," Hilaire says, somewhere, and Emile smears his thumb over Jared's open mouth and says, "Breathe," amused, and Jared does, a deep shocked inhale that's pushed right out of him again when Emile begins to thrust, a slow steady rocking into the cradle of Jared's body. It's—so different, from what he'd imagined, so very—

He's making a sound, a low continuous spill of moaning, and he should try to harness it but evidently neither of them mind. Emile kisses his cheek, with a smile, his hips still moving in that steady surge, the heavy solidity of his cock moving inside, making a new space for itself. It's so strange that it doesn't even feel like pleasure—not like the pleasure when Jared has taken himself in hand, rare though that is. It's too deep, too new and odd. Emile murmurs, "All right?" and Jared nods, says _yes_ , and yes again, and Hilaire laughs and Emile shifts, pulling one of Jared's legs up so that his knee is hooked over Emile's elbow, and that change is enough to—oh, _there_ , and Jared groans shocked out loud and Hilaire shifts in close, kisses Jared's knee just above his white silk stocking and then Emile's shoulder, slips her hand down between them to squeeze his aching cock and says, "Go on, husband," smiling down into Jared's face, and then—then Emile thrusts hard and Jared yelps, but it feels so good he arches involuntarily, his hands buried in Emile's dark hair and his belly and cock and sac all throbbing, and then Emile does it again, and again, and then it's all Jared can do to hang on, fucked steadily and long and _good_ , on and on and on until something buried deep in him coils tight, and he gasps, and then—

He drifts, almost hazy. Emile spills inside him, at some later point, his thrusting suddenly even slicker, and Jared moans softly for it—then he's being kissed, by one and then the other, and then they kiss over the top of him, their mouths making soft wet sounds. He thinks of Jensen, then, for some reason. His eyes glinting green-gold in the sunlight.

"How was that, treasure?" Hilaire says.

He's smiling already; when he forces his eyes open, Hilaire raises her eyebrows in amused question and he smiles wider. "Just… wonderful," he says, on a sigh, and she lets out a delighted little laugh.

They have him again, during the night. Hilaire sheds her gown entirely and he pleasures her again while Emile rocks into him from behind, doing his utmost to distract Jared from his duty; she performs the _languisement_ on him while Emile holds him close against his chest and he shudders and spills, nearly spent, pleasure radiating through every part.

When he wakes, in the hour before dawn, they're making love beside him, clinched close. He stretches out on his side of the bed, watching their bodies move in the half-light from the melted-down candles. Hilaire lets out a soft, hurt noise when she finishes. Emile bends his head to her breast and rocks in again, and again, and she cradles him close through those last thrusts. Jared holds his breath, wonders if he shouldn't be watching—but then she opens her eyes and sees him, and smiles. Emile holds hard against her hips and shudders, with a long sigh, and then he turns and looks at Jared, too, and beckons him close, and they draw him between them and hold him, their bodies still hot with pleasure and sweat, smelling of their completion. He cries a little, then, overwhelmed at last. Hilaire pets his hair back from his face and Emile kisses his temple, tender and kind.

It is full morning, light streaming in through the open windows, when he wakes again and they're gone. He blinks at the canopy of his new bed. He's sore, but not unduly so, though he desperately needs a bath. A monumental effort lets him drag his arms up, and he rubs his eyes. He feels… heavy, his body well-used and aching pleasantly. A little memory flickers through him and he turns his face against the warm linen of his pillow, smiling, and then he blinks. On the sideboard, the sculpture of Naamah's hands—they're full. He staggers out of bed and finds the purse, heavy with coin, and tied to it with his blue hair-ribbon a note in a well-educated hand: _in homage to Naamah, for her sweetest servant._

He puts the note to his lips and closes his eyes. Soon, he will need to start the day, and see the others, and report to the Dowayne that all is well. He will have to count out his patron-gift, and make an appointment with the marquist. For right now, in this moment standing naked in the warm summer morning, he presses the note to his chest and stands alone. His whole life has led him to this point. He smiles, to himself, and looks out the window to the new day. At last, years of waiting and training and hoping behind him, he is a true Servant of Naamah.

 

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](http://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/164936528434/nightblooming-flowers-j2)


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